HlBRARYQc 


HIMSELF  HIS  WOBST  EM 


PHILIP  DUKE  OF  WHARTON'S  CAREER. 


"The  scorn  and  wonder  of  our  days." — POPE. 


BY 

ALFRED  P.  BROTHERHEAD, 


LIUKAUIAN. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

B.  LIPPINCOTT   &   CO 
1871. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

WILLIAM  BROTHERHEAD, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PHILADELPHIA  t 
COLLINS,    PRINTER. 


I  DEDICATE  THIS 
MY    FIRST    WORK 

TO 

flUear  4F atljer  cmfc  iflotljer: 

AND  ALSO 
TO 

Samttcl  OTroft,  (Esq. 

A9  A  SLIGHT  TOKEN  OF  ESTEEM 

FOR  HIS 

UNSULLIED    HONOR 

AND 
INTEGRITY, 

AND  AS  A 

GRATEFUL   ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

OF   HIS 

UNVARYING    KINDNESS 

TO  MY  FATHER. 


83£685 


(3) 


PREFACE. 


THIS,  my  first  book,  is  presented  to  the 
public  with  the  usual  forebodings  of  all 
authors.  All  I  claim  for  it  is  a  fair  and  can 
did  perusal,  and  an  impartial  criticism.  For 
the  historical  data  I  must  thank  various  and 
many  historians;  for  all  else  I  am  responsible. 

A.  P.  B. 

BROTHERHEAD'S  LIBRARY: 

205  SOUTH  THIRTEENTH  STREKT. 

PHILADELPHIA,  January  1,  1871. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

THE  STORM— LONDON,  1703. 

'  I  have  seen  tempests,  when  the  scolding  winds 
Have  riv'd  the  knotty  oaks ;  and  I  have  seen 
The  ambitious  ocean  swell,  and  rage,  and  foam, 
To  be  exalted  with  the  threatening  clouds  : 
But  never  till  to-night,  never  till  now, 
Did  I  go  through  a  tempest  dropping  fire. 
Either  there  is  a  civil  strife  in  Heaven  ; 
Or  else  the  world,  too  saucy  with  the  gods, 
Incenses  them  to  send  destruction." 

JULIUS  C.ESAR,  I.  in. 

"  So  when  an  angel,  by  Divine  command, 
With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land 
(Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  passed)." 

TIIE  CAMPAIGN. 

A  DEEP  silence  reigns  over  London,  and  although  it 
wants  but  an  hour  of  midnight,  the  quietness  feels  too 
intense  even  for  so  late  an  hour.  The  moon  hangs  in 
the  centre  of  the  ragged  clouds,  lurid  and  red,  totally 
unlike  its  usual  radiant  light  and  mellow  color;  thin 
Hficlen  clouds  scud  swiftly  before  it,  and,  for  a  time, 
dim  its  glow,  making  it  dull  and  copperish  until  they 
pass.  The  heavens  in  every  part  present  an  unusual 
appearance;  an  opaque,  light-colored  mist  floats  be 
tween  the  sky  and  the  earth,  and  dims  the  brilliancy 
of  the  few  stars  that  cluster  around  the  sun  of  night. 
It  is,  however,  beginning  to  break;  wide  crevices  already 
yawning  and  cracks  opening,  the  huge  clouds  show  their 
threatening  ranks,  piled  mountain  high,  and  filled  with 


HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY  J 

the  thunderbolts  of  Jove's  great  armorer,  Vulcan.' 
People  afterwards  said  that  this  mist  formed  itself  into 
the  semblance  of  an  immense  angel,  whose  wings  covered 
the  half  of  the  city,  and  whose  face  was  lowering  and 
angry.  Be  that  as  it  may,  they  had  scant  time  to 
notice  it  before  the  lightning  began ;  its  quick,  sharp, 
blinding  flashes  push  out  in  bold  relief  the  torn  clouds 
and  vaporous  banks  whence  it  comes ;  the  low  rum 
bling  thunder  moans  its  solemn  accompaniment,  and 
the  air  grows  more  stifling,  sticking  in  the  throat, 
as  do  the  sulphurous  blasts  from  the  depths  of  ./Etna, 
or  the  mouth  of  Apollyon.  At  the  corners  of  the 
streets,  on  the  old-time  roomy  porches,  and  on  the 
sheltered  stoops  of  the  coffee-houses  and  taverns,  stand 
or  sit  groups  of  anxious  people  conversing  in  sub 
dued,  awe-stricken  tones  on  the  unusual  signs  in  the 
firmament ;  they  look  constrained  and  uneasy,  as  though 
they  feel  the  awful  shadow  of  this  coming  event. 

Now,  there  being  a  momentary  cessation  of  both  thun 
der  and  lightning,  they  breathe  more  freely  and  begin  to 
hope  that  after  all  the  storm  may  blow  over;  scarcely, 
however,  have  they  time  to  exchange  their  whispered 
thoughts  ere  a  quicker,  but  more  sustained,  more  blind 
ing  flash  deprives  them  almost  of  sight,  making  them 
see  things  "  as  through  a  glass  darkly,"  and  the  thunder 
meanwhile  crashing  out  a  sublimely  grand  symphony. 
Globes  of  pink  fire  coruscate  simultaneously  in 
parts  of  the  heavens,  whirling  around  for  a  few  seconds 
with  inconceivable  velocity,  bursting  with  a  sharp  re 
port,  and  filling  the  air  with  millions  of  fiery  fragments 
which  saturate  the  atmosphere  with  an  unnatural,  suf 
focating  smell.  Meteoric  flashes  scintillate  around, 
mother  Nature  appearing  to  be  working  herself  up  to 
an  angry,  revengeful  mood. 

Great,  heavy  drops  patter  sullenly  on  the  dry  pave- 


OE,  PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHAETON'S   CAEEEE.  9 

ment,  and  leave  clots  of  mud  where  they  fall  in  slow 
succession.  Again  for  a  few  minutes  there  is  a  cessation. 

Once  more  they  hope  that  the  storm  will  blow  over 
and  break  elsewhere  ;  but,  with  a  wilder,  heavier  crash 
than  its  predecessors,  the  thunder  roars  aloud  and  the 
tempest  begins  in  real  earnest.  The  Storm-God  shrieks 
with  fierce,  savage  joy  as  he  bursts  in  all  his  might 
upon  the  devoted  city — palace  and  cottage,  church  and 
gaming  hell  alike  he  shatters  in  his  mad  career. 

Bolts  upon  bolts  leap  from  cloud  to  cloud,  and  hiss  in 
very  terror  at  their  own  appalling  deadliness,  as  they 
rive  and  rend  in  their  swift  passage  to  the  earth. 

The  Thames,  now  a  seething  mass  of  muddy  billows, 
rushes  and  boils  over  its  banks  with  strange  violence, 
dashes  its  waves  even  into  Westminster  Hall,  and 
floods  the  city  with  its  cold,  slimy  torrent;  London 
Bridge  meanwhile  threatening  momentarily  to  fall  asun 
der,  and  precipitate  itself  from  its  piers  into  the  angry 
flood  which  swirls  and  eddies  beneath  it  like  an  immense 
maelstrom. 

In  Saint  James'  Park  whole  avenues  of  noble  elms 
are  uprooted,  and  lie  prostrate  far  away  from  their  for 
mer  positions,  a  part  of  the  palace  has  been  struck 
by  lightning,  and  hurled  to  the  ground  with  an  all-de 
stroying  force  and  impetuosity,  while  the  same  power 
has  killed  its  human  victims  by  the  score — a  happier 
fate,  to  be  sure,  than  that  of  those  who  were  maimed  and 
wounded  by  flying  signs,  falling  walls,  and  the  large 
hailstones  which  now  begin  to  add  their  terrors  to  the 
dreadful  scene  ;  down  they  come !  rattling  on  the  many 
roofs  like  volleys  of  musketry ;  the  wind  whirls  them  in 
all  directions;  glass  is  flying  about,  and  hundreds  of 
persons  are  knocked  senseless  by  these  frozen  bullets 
hmied  from  on  high. 

The  leaden  coverings  of  the  church  and  houseroofs  are 


10  HIMSELF   HIS  -WORST   ENEMY; 

rolled  up  like  ribbons  and  as  quickly  unrolled  by  the 
howling  wind,  as  it  shifts  and  careens  to  all  quarters 
in  the  same  instant. 

The  terror-stricken  people  close  their  eyes  in  fear  and 
trembling,  and  cover  their  pale  faces  with  shaking  hands 
to  screen  the  dread  sights  from  their  view.  They  cower 
in  groups,  scarcely  knowing  which  to  fear  the  most,  the 
enormous  hailstones,  the  forked  lightning  ricochetting. 
and  hurtling  about  their  ears,  or  the  thunder-claps  which 
set  their  heads  whirling  and  their  ears  hujnming. 

The  tumult  is  beyond  all  conception ;  it  is  as  though 
all  hell  had  again  rebelled  against  the  Divinity,  and  were 
trying  to  scale  the  summit  of  the  heaven  which  they  had 
forever  lost. 

Houses  and  churches  are  falling  in  all  directions, 
adding  to  the  din  and  confusion  and  sending  up  clouds 
of  dust,  and  in  many  cases  myriads  of  sparks,  which 
the  pouring  rain  soon  quenches. 

Amidst  this  mad  struggle  of  the  elements  can  be  seen' 
a  group  of  terrified  men,  crying  babes,  and  sobbing 
women,  who  cling  together  in  the  middle  of  the  street 
waiting  in  terror  for  the  storm  to  cease,  so  that  they 
can  return  in  sa/ety  to  homes  which  they  have  for 
saken  for  fear  of  the  lightning  which  strikes  and  levels 
so  many  of  the  taller  houses  ;  the  while  a  courtly  gallant 
surveying  the  huddling  crowd  with  a  look  of  supercilious 
pity  and  proud  disdain.  He  is  dressed  in  a  cloak  and 
doublet  of  gray  velvet,  lined  with  pale  blue,  the  outside 
is  covered  with  deep  bars  of  black  lace,  silken  hose  cover 
his  well-shaped  legs,  and  his  shoes  are  made  in  the  latest 
mode  and  fastened  with  small  diamond  buckles.  His  body 
is  erect  and  soldierly,  and  his  haughty  bearing  betrays 
his  patrician  origin.  His  hat,  very  wide  in  the  brim, 
is  looped  up  on  one  side  with  an  aigrette  of  brilliants, 
the  other  drooping  over  the  right  cheek  and  leaving  it  in 


OE,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  11 

deep  shadow ;  it  is  rakishly  cocked  and  hides  half  of  a 
handsome,  wicked  face,  adorned  with  the  peaked  beard 
in  the  style  of  Yandyck.  He  looks,  as  a  girl  close  by 
him  says,  "  Every  inch  of  a  rakehelly  ruffler." 

Hearing  the  remark,  he  turns  to  her  with  a  smile,  and 
says,  reprovingly,  "  How  now,  Mistress  Impertinence ! 
art  frightened  at  old  Tom  "Wharton  ?  S'bodkins!  Once 
was  a  time  when  a  pretty  girl  would  have  given  him  a 
better  reception  than  cold  words  and  sour  looks !"  And 
he  extends  his  hand  in  order  to  raise  her  face  to  the 
light  and  scan  her  features  more  plainly. 

Thomas  Wharton  was  born  in  the  times  of  the  Cove 
nanters,  his  father  being  a  sour,  rigid  old  Calvinist, 
and  a  firm  believer  in  Cromwell  and  his  Ironsides.  His 
boyhood  was  passed  amid  a  dismal  set  of  sombre,  psalm- 
singing  roundheads,  half  preachers,  half  soldiers,  firm 
believers  in  the  church-militant  and  the  sanctity  of  their 
own  persons. 

Growing  older  and  gradually  breaking  loose  from  such 
associations,  of  course  a  decided  reaction  took  place,  and 
in  the  London  of  the  Restoration  he  became  such  a  liber 
tine,  scapegrace,  and  blasphemous  wit  that  he  shocked 
even  the  wildest  of  such  a  dissolute  crew  of  Cavaliers  as 
never  England  boasted  before,  nor  wishes  to  boast  again. 
Ribald  and  profanely  witty  in  his  conversation,  impious 
and  insolent,  he  fought  so  often,  coming  unscathed  out 
of  so  many  duels  that  he  attained  the  reputation  of 
bearing  a  charmed  life.  Utterly  shameless,  the  barbed 
arrows  of  his  assailants'  tongues  he  shot  back,  with  a 
jeer  at  their  impotence.  Being  a  "Whig  of  the  most  viru 
lent  type,  he  is  as  true  as  steel  to  the  party  he  supports 
with  his  talents  and  his  genius.  He  even  carries  his  pro 
clivities  into  his  sports,  and  often  at  a  race-meeting,  when 
a  well-known  Tory  had  put  his  horse  in  to  win,  down 
would  come  Wharton's  "  Careless"  or  his  bay  gelding, 


12  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

for  which  the  Grand  Monarch  had  in  vain  offered  a  fabu 
lous  price. 

As  an  electioneerer  he  is  invincible;  Buckinghamshire 
is  all  his  own,  besides  various  other  counties,  which  he 
always  canvasses  in  person,  and  by  his  good  humor, 
unmatchable  impudence,  and  affability,  he  always  leaves 
his  opponents  far  in  the  lurch. 

At  this  time  he  is  well  advanced  in  years,  but  is  still 
possessed  of  all  the  buoyancy  of  youth,  a  dangerous 
quality  to  those  about  him,  when  you  add  to  that  the 
thorough  knowledge  of  state  affairs  and  party  secrets  he 
has  gained  during  his  long  experience  in  the  political 
arena.  His  intrigues  were  formerly  the  dread  of  every 
honest  citizen  or  jealous  Cavalier  in  London,  and  even 
now  an  uxorious  husband  would  rather  see  Moloch  in 
his  house  than  old  Tom  Wharton  with  his  flattering 
speeches  and  expressive  glances.  His  temper  is  imper 
turbable  to  the  last  degree,  and  he  can  pink  his  opponent 
with  the  same  grace  and  coolness  as  he  eats  buttered 
whiting  at  the  tavern  in  Clare  Market.  "  He  had  never 
given  a  challenge,  had  never  refused  one ;  had  never  taken 
a  life,  and  yet  he  had  never  fought  without  having  his 
antagonist's  life  at  his  mercy." 

He  is  a  steady  frequenter  of  the  Saint  James  Coffee 
House,  where  his  opinion  is  always  listened  to  with 
great  attention,  and  where  his  eagle  eye  is  always  on  the 
young  patricians,  and  if  he  notes  one  who  he  thinks 
might  be  useful  to  his  party,  he  is  sure  to  secure  him 
by  his  adroit  flattery  and  his  consummate  diplomacy. 
Honest  Tom,  as  he  is  familiarly  called  by  his  associates, 
is  a  strong  Whig  pillar ;  and  this  is  the  man  who  has 
favored  the  world  with  a  son  worthy  of  himself,  the  fam 
ous  Philip,  Duke  of  Wharton,  of  whom  more  hereafter. 

At  the  instant  Lord  Wharton  caught  hold  of  the 
shrinking  girl  there  was  a  loud  crash,  and  a  large  gabled 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  13 

mansion,  which  stood  a  few  yards  below  them,  was 
levelled  to  the  ground  by  a  stroke  of  lightning;  the  crowd 
swayed  to  and  fro  in  alarm,  and  amid  the  incidental  con 
fusion  she  elbowed  her  way  into  it,  and  escaped  from  his 
pleasantries. 

He  laughs  aloud  at  their  terror,  occasionally  scream 
ing  out,  so  as  to  be  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  wild 
tempest,  a  blasphemous  remark  or  an  impious  jest,  until 
they  begin  to  stare  at  him  with  a  mixture  of  awe  and 
fear,  and  shrink  from  him  as  though  he  were  pest- 
stricken  ;  and  now  he  stands  alone  and  prominent  amid 
a  circle  of  blanched,  gaping  faces. 

Here  a  'prentice  lad,  in  dirty  woollen  cap  and  smirched 
ruff,  dries  his  tears  with  his  greasy  fustian  sleeve  or  his 
greasier  hand.  There  an  artificer's  pretty  wife 'draggles 
her  skirts  in  the  dirty  pools,  and  glances  occasionally 
at  the  "  wicked  lord"  who  is  so  bold  amid  all  this  crash 
and  ruin ;  her  fine  cambric  ruff,  lace  cuffs,  and  the  pretty 
velvet  cap  perched  on  her  brown  hair  are  limp  and  dis 
ordered  with  the  combined  effects  of  rain  and  sundry 
hailstones  which  struck  her  when  they  first  began  to 
rattle  down.  Now  my  lord  turns  quickly  on  his  heel, 
and  cautiously  picks  his  way  through  the  falling  debris 
towards  Whitehall.  The  street  he  passes  through  is  a 
fair  sample  of  all  London  at  this  moment ;  narrow, 
crooked,  and  ill-paved.  Shattered  signs,  broken  coaches 
and  carts  lumber  the  way ;  fallen  houses  cover  the  pave 
ment  and  kennel  with  their  ruins ;  the  water  runs  almost 
knee  deep,  and  is  as  cold  as  ice,  from  the  hailstones. 
Lord  Wharton  looks  for  a  chair  to  carry  him  to  his  des 
tination,  but  even  the  carriers  have  gone  home  to  see  to 
the  safety  of  their  wives  and  children.  He  twirls  his 
beard  and  strides  resolutely  on,  with  the  muddy  water 
wetting  his  silken  hose,  ruining  his  rapier  and  velvet 
small-clothes;  but  he  is  a  philosopher  in  these  little 
2 


14  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

things,  and  pleasantly  hums  "  Lillibullero  bullan  a  la," 
the  famous  doggerel  generally  accredited  to  him. 

He  has  proceeded  but  a  short  distance  when  a  girl's 
form  becomes  dimly  perceptible  through  the  gray  curtain 
of  rain ;  he  quickens  his  step  and  exclaims,  "  Egad !  the 
hussy  hath  a  good  shape;  I'll  e'en  speak  with  her!" 
She  is  evidently  aware  that  he  is  pursuing  her,  and 
she  considerately  slackens  her  pace  until  he  reaches  her 
side,  then  she  turns  to  him  and  says  in  a  sweet,  though 
rather  bold  voice,  "  Good-night  to  ye,  my  lord,  rabbit 

me  if  ."      She  happens  to  see  his  face  while  the 

lightning  plays  with  unusual  brilliancy;  she  stops  sud 
denly  as  if  spellbound,  and  then  cries  in  a  bitter 
anguish-stricken  tone, "Oh  God!  Tom  —  You?"  Then 
her  utterance  became  choked,  she  ran  away  from  him 
with  great  precipitancy,  and  drew  her  hood  low  over 
her  face.  He  made  an  effort  to  stop  her,  but  she  eluded 
his  grasp ;  and  now  she  is  lost  to  view. 

"  S'blood  I  This  is  strange !  A  pest  on  the  jade  to  run 
away  ere  I  saw  her  face.  'Tis  a  pretty  one,  I  '11  be 
bound,  or  she  would  not  have  been  so  chary  of  showing 
it ;  and  to  call  me  Tom,  plain  Tom !  Egad,  she  must 
have  known  me  before ;  her  voice  hath  a  familiar  ring 
now  I  think  on't,  but  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  recall 
where  I  have  heard  it.  Jupiter  Pluvius !  how  it  pours." 

Let  us  follow  the  object  of  his  thoughts.  She  does 
not  run  far  before  she  bounds  up  the  steps  of  a  gaudily 
painted  house  and  raps  quickly  with  her  knuckles ;  the 
door  is  at  once  half  opened,  and  a  husky  voice  exclaims, 
"Who's  there?" 

"Nellie,"  she  answers,  impatiently;  the  door-chain 
clangs  heavily  on  the  floor,  and  she  totters  in,  wet  and 
dirty.  Her  face,  though  pale  and  not  over  clean,  is 
pretty  and  expressive ;  but  in  her  bright  eyes  there  is  a 
wild,  hunted  look  which  ill-accords  with  their  azure  hue. 


OR,  PHILIP  DUKE   OF  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  15 

She  goes  up  stairs,  entering  a  close  dark  room  in  the 
back  part  of  the  house,  and  lights  a  dirty  tallow  candle, 
which  she  places  on  the  table ;  now  she  goes  towards  a 
small  trundle-bed  where  lies  a  pink,  flaxen-haired  boy, 
whose  pure  breath  comes  softly  through  his  little  open 
lips,  on  which  she  imprints  a  passionate  kiss ;  the 
wild  look  leaves  her  eyes,  and  in  its  place  a  glorious 
radiance — a  mother's  love  conquers  all  other  feelings. 
She  gathers  him  up  very  closely,  and  strains  him  to  her 
bosom.  "  My  poor  babe,  I  must  deny  myself  even  the 
consolation  of  your  innocence  and  your  darling  prat 
tle  ;  father  will  keep  you  for  my  sake,  for  the  little  Nellie's 
sake  who  was  once  his  only  joy."  Her  tears  fall  thick 
and  fast,  while  outside  the  storm  still  continues  with 
scarcely  any  apparent  diminution.  The  room  is  bare 
and  gloomy ;  it  has  but  one  ornament  in  it — a  withered 
bunch  of  wild  violets  under  a  dusty  glass  case. 


16  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY  J 


CHAPTEK  II. 

"He  's  a  downright  pest  in  all  sorts  of  ways." 

MELEAGER. 

THE  Wharton  estate  is  situated  in  the  loveliest  part 
of  picturesque  Buckingham.  The  castle  is  venerable  and 
romantic.  A  spacious  terrace  surrounds  it  on  every 
side,  luxuriantly  beautified  with  the  wanton  musk  rose, 
myriads  of  lime-blossoms,  the  sweet-smelling  haw 
thorn;  and  interspersed  in  artistic  profusion  are  cupids, 
fauns,  dryads,  and  floras,  most  of  which  are  draped 
with  the  delicate  tendrils  of  the  sweetbrier  which  cling 
lovingly  to  their  gleaming  limbs.  The  rusty  creaking 
vane,  the  fluted  chimneys  of  moulded  bricks  are  quaint 
and  bygone,  smacking  of  the  Elizabethan  period  and 
its  customs.  Inside  are  long  broad  rooms ;  winding 
passages,  dim  hallways  hung  with  stamped  leather,  or 
panelled  in  black  oak  which  is  decorated  with  heraldic 
devices.  The  low  ceilings  are  interlaced  with  heavy 
rafters  of  some  dark  wood,  whose  gothic  corbels  are 
shaped  into  fantastic  .grinning  faces. 

In  the  hallways,  on  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  between 
the  mullioned  windows,  stands  stiff  and  stern  the  armor 
of  the  Wharton  warriors,  which  adds  to  the  air  of  an 
tiquity  which  surrounds  the  castle  and  its  adjuncts; 
truly  meriting  its  venerable  air,  for  it  was  built  by  the 
second  Baron  Wharton  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  The  round,  castellated  towers  which  adorn 
either  end  were  added  later  to  give  greater  defensive  and 
offensive  powers  in  times  of  forays  and  maraudings, 
of  which  the  whole  front  shows  many  traces  in  broken 


OE,  PHILIP  DUKE   OF  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  It 

buttresses,  undermined  walls,  and  splintered  gateways. 
A  moat,  once  filled  with  stagnant  water,  which  was 
formerly  crossed  by  a  drawbridge,  is  now  filled  up  and 
transformed  into  an  odorous  garden;  this  adds  a 
glowing  loveliness  to  a  picture  which  might  otherwise 
have  been  too  sombre.  In  the  middle  of  the  hall  is  a 
massive  stairway  wide  enough  for  a  dozen  bowmen  to 
walk  abreast  without  jostling  one  another.  It  is  highly 
polished,  and  elaborately  carved  like  its  surroundings. 

Down  it  are  descending  two  persons;  one  of  them  is 
the  Lady  "Wharton,  who  is  tall  and  handsome ;  her  car 
riage  is  very  stately;  she  bears  herself  haughtily,  as 
becomes  the  female  representative  of  a  high  and  noble 
family ;  like  her  .husband  she  is  a  Whig,  and,  to  show  her 
politics  to  all  the  world,  she  has  stuck  two  conspicuous 
patches  on  her  right  cheek.  Her  eyes  rest  on  her  com 
panion,  who  walks  by  her  side  with  all  the  dignity  and 
grace  of  a  courtier  of  twenty  years'  standing.  He  has 
scarcely  seen  frmrteen  summers,  but  he  might  easily  pass 
for  much  older.  He  is  tall,  well-shaped ;  his  hair  is  parted 
in  the  middle,  falling  on  his  shoulders  in  thick  natural 
curls ;  in  front  it  is  cut  low  on  his  forehead,  and  brushed 
smooth ;  his  eyes  beam  with  liveliness,  wit,  and  good 
humor,  with  just  a  perceptible  trace  of  arrogance  in  them, 
bred  doubtless  by  the  servile  attendants  who  are  ever 
ready  to  obey  every  nod  and  beck  of  young  master 
Philip.  His  mouth  is  the  most  attractive  feature  about 
him ;  it  can  bestow  the  most  persuasive  and  endearing 
smile ;  it  can  curl  itself  into  a  spiteful  bow,  and  bandy 
caustic  wit  and  biting  repartees  with  any  dame  or  cava 
lier  who  chooses  to  play  with  such  keen  weapons.  His 
nose  is  a  trifle  sharp  at  the  extremity,  but  large  at  the 
base;  and  his  complexion  surpasses  in  brilliancy  the 
vaunted  skin  of  any  court  belle  in  London.  His  chin 

rather  detracts  from  his  manliness  ;  it  would  be  perfect 
2* 


18  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

in  a  girl,  but  for  a  man  it  is  too  feminine,  and  shows  a 
lack  of  stability  or  principle,  or  both. 

Young  as  he  is  he  can  boast  unusual  parts ;  in  classics 
and  belles-lettres  he  is  better  posted  than  is  many  a 
pedantic  professor  in  a  provincial  college ;  in  politics, 
diplomacy,  and  the  use  of  the  rapier  he  has  been  in 
structed  by  my  lord,  who  saw  his  aptitude  for  learning, 
appreciated  his  talents  and  ambition,  feeling  proud  of 
him,  with  his  handsome  face,  his  reckless  courage,  and  his 
various  accomplishments ;  among  these  he  is  remarkable 
as  a  linguist,  for  he  has  already  thoroughly  mastered  the 
chief  European  language,  as  also  Latin  and  Greek. 

lie  looks  up  at  his  mother  with  a  caressing  smile,  and 
says,  "My  lady  mother,  why  do  you  always  get  so 
mightily  angered  if  I  but  look  kindly  on  sweet  mistress 
Margery  ?  Sure  she  is  as  proper  a  girl  as  your  ladyship 
did  ever  see." 

Her  lips  curl  contemptuously  as  she  replies,  "Why, 
my  little  Whig,  do'st  imagine  that  I  could  stoop  so  low 
as  to  fret  myself  because  my  son  deigns  to  smile  on  an 
awkward  country  girl  ?" 

"  Nay,"  he  replies  in  some  heat,  "  you  are  misled  in 
thinking  her  an  awkward  rustic ;  she  is  the  daughter  of 
General  Holmes,  whose  family  vaunts  good  blood  and  a 
score  of  quarterings,  though  their  revenue  is  small ;  and, 
I  pray  you,  call  me  not  Whig ;  I  hate  its  very  sound ; 
Tory  and  high  church  sound  more  pleasantly  in  my  ears, 
Wharton  though  I  am  I" 

He  stops  in  some  confusion,  for  spite  of  his  bold 
words  he  stands  in  awe  of  his  stately  mother ;  she  looks 
at  him  in  surprise  and  mortification  for  a  moment,  then 
says  in  cold,  measured  tones,  "  My  son,  I  can  dispense 
with  your  company;  leave  me !"  He  makes  a  deep  obei 
sance  and  attempts  to  kiss  her  hand,  but  she  waves 
him  away,  exclaiming,  "No,  Philip,  not  from  a  Tory!"  He 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON's   CAREER.  19 

blushes  scarlet,  turns  quickly  on   his   heel,  and  walks 
proudly  along  the  hall  towards  the  gamekeeper's  lodge. 

Her  eyes  follow  him  with  a  troubled,  wistful  expres 
sion  in  them.  "  I  fear  he  will  be  as  his  father  was  before 
him,  and  as  they  say  he  is  yet,  wild  and  reckless.  I  would 
rather  see  him  in  his  grave  than  see  him  a  profligate 
and  a  bully,  or,  worse  than  all,  a  traitor  to  our  party. 
He  is  so  headstrong,  so  extravagant,  and  contrary,  that 
if  my  lord  is  one  thing,  Philip  is  sure  to  be  the  other." 

She  sits  wearily  down  in  the  large,  high-backed  oaken 
chair,  near  to  the  painted  window  which  represents  a 
thrilling  incident  in  the  life  of  one  of  her  husband's 
ancestors,  Baron  Godfroi  "Wharton.  It  is  in  reference  to 
a  duel  he  once  fought.  He  had  entered  the  lists  against 
an  unknown  knight  who  had  grossly  insulted  him,  and 
then  challenged  him  to  the  combat  a  Voutrance,  on  foot 
or  on  horse,  with  spear  or  with  sword  ;  they  fought,  and 
the  Baron  was  the  victor;  he  was  just  about  to  dispatch 
his  adversary  with  a  thrust  of  his  misericordia  through 
the  bars  of  his  helmet,  when  his  hand  was  tightly  griped, 
and  a  voice  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  Desist  I  most  puissant 
of  chevaliers ;  he  is  thy  son,  whom  thou  didst  discard 
so  cruelly  some  year  or  so  agone!"  So  his  life  was 
spared;  when  he  recovered,  they  lived  on  terms  of  amity 
until  death  parted  them. 

She  is  looking  at  the  scene  depicted  on  the  glass  in 
all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  "  I  wonder  whether  they  will 
ever  fight  against  each  other  ?  Philip  is  excitable,  and 
my  lord  is  not  slow  to  anger.  But  I  must  go  and  steep 
Granny  Leedsie's  feverwort ;  she  will  need  it  to-night." 

She  rises  gracefully,  walking  slowly  to  the  refectory 
or  herb-room  to  discharge  her  charitable  duties,  and  also 
to  have  ah  eye  to  the  servants. 

Philip  stalked  into  the  lodge  with  a  sullen  air,  quiver 
ing  lips,  and  eyes  bright  with  suppressed  tears,  and 


20  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY} 

demanded  peremptorily  of  the  stripling  who  was  engaged 
in  polishing  a  long  yew  bow  which  looked  as  if  it  might 
take  a  Goliath  to  handle,  "Where  is  Shem?"  He  did 
not  give  him  time  to  answer,  but  again  ejaculated, 
"Quick!  Begone!  send  him  here."  And  he  waved  his 
small  white  hand  with  a  gesture  worthy  of  Louis  or  my 
Lord  Chesterfield.  The  boy  darted  out  of  the  door  like 
a  deer  "  uncovered,"  startled  by  master  Philip's  rough 
manner,  generally  so  gracious  to  all  the  dependents. 

"Mornin',  Master  Philip,"  says  Shem  Throck  the 
gamekeeperv  as  he  darkens  the  door  with  his  broad 
shoulders,  and  touches  his  cap  respectfully.  He  is  a  good 
type  of  the  bluff,  courageous  Englishman  of  the  lower 
class ;  his  quick  brown  eyes  are  full  of  conviviality  and 
fun. 

He  throws  a  keen  glance  at  Philip,  and  continues,  "Art 
sick,  sir?  Thou  dost  not  look  ower  weel  this  mornin'." 

'Without  noticing  his  interrogatory,  Philip  says, 
*'•  Shem,  my  crossbow !  and  select  me  a  few  good  shafts, 
well  feathered  and  true." 

Shem  executed  his  commands,  and  asks,  "  Shalt  want 
we  along  ?" 

"No,  I  would  rather  go  alone:  if  my  lord  inquires 
unent  me,  tell  him  I  have  gone  a  shooting,  and  will 
not  return  till  late.  Hast  seen  Mistress  Margery  in  the 
-Chase  or  the  dingle,  Shem  ?" 

"Nay!  Master  Philip,  I  did  na  see  her  at  either  of 
they  two  places;  m'appen  I  mought  have,  if  I  had 
looked  hard  eno'  down  by  Rooksnest ;  she  is  often  there 
abouts,"  and  a  twinkle  shot  out  of  his  eye  as  he  turned 
to  the  window  and  hung  his  crossbow  on  its  accustomed 
Peg. 

Philip  steps  out  and  walks  swiftly  towards  the  forest, 
and  he  is  soon  lost  to  sight  among  the  thick  hedges  and 
bushes. 


OB,  PIIILIP  DUKE  OP  WHARTON'S  CAREER.         21 

Shem  has  his  eyes  on  him,  and  chuckles  knowingly, 
"  Little  game  he  wants,  I  trow,  or  his  memory  would  no' 
be  so  bad  as  to  forget  his  gamebag  forbye ;  I  think  my- 
sel'  that  Mistress  Margery  has  mair  to  do  wi'  his  hunting 
the  day  than  e'er  the  pretty  pheasant  or  the  swift  red  deer, 
though  he  has  shafts  for  both.  Weel,  weel,  his  young 
blood  is  hot  and  springsome,  but  an'  I  were  he,  I  suld 
think  twice  ere  I  braved  my  lord's  scowl  once  ;  I  ken  his 
lordship  is  sorely  against  him  meeting  her  as  he  does. 
Philip  was  aye  wilfu',  and  some  day  there  will  be  sair 
greeting  and  wet  een  for  his  sake,  for  all  his  winnin' 
tongue  and  his  bonnie  face."  He  ceases  his  soliloquy, 
and  proceeds  to  affix  to  his  door  two  otter  heads  and  a 
long-toothed,  foam-flecked  head  of  a  veteran  fox,  the 
spoils  of  the  morning.  The  stout  oaken  planks  are  al 
most  covered  with  similar  trophies,  some  fresh  and  moist, 
others  dry  and  hard ;  most  of  them  have  been  caught  or 
shot  by  Shem ;  but  still  there  are  many  of  Brad's  trophies 
there  also,  his  father  having  made  him  a  skilful  woods 
man  and  a  cunning  hunter. 

He  stops  his  work  for  a  moment,  and  abstractedly 
lets  his  arm  drop  to  his  side ;  a  perplexed  expression 
ruffles  his  usually  placid  countenance;  suddenly  he  roars 
out  in  stentorian  tones,  and  with  his  hand  to  his  cheek 
as  if  about  to  give  the  view-halloo,  "  Brad  away !  Brad 
away  1"  "  Away — away"  echoes  in  every  direction,  and 
repeats  itself  in  varied  tones  in  wood  and  marsh,  mere 
and  loch. 

He  appears  in  obedience  to  the  paternal  call — a  heal 
thy,  rosy-cheeked,  sinewy  lad,  who  springs  rather  than 
walks  into  the  lodge,  flushed  and  panting.  He  stands  mo 
tionless  and  quiet,  awaiting  the  commands  of  his  father, 
whose  voice  had  penetrated  far  into  the  woods  where  he 
had  been  tracking  for  otters  on  the  edge  of  the  lake. 

"  Brad,"  he  growls  in  a  gruff  voice  which  his  genial 


22  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

face  belied,  for  it  is  one  of  his  notions  that  if  his  son 
found  out  how  tenderly  he  loved  him  he  might  become 
unruly  and  fractious,  and  take  advantage  of  it,  so  that 
he  always  shows  him  a  stern  front  and  no  favor ;  but 
unfortunately  Brad  had  long  ago  discovered  this  trait, 
and  humored  his  father  accordingly. 

"  Go  down  to  Rooksnest,  just  this  side  o' t'  Weird's 
cave;  thou  'It  find  the  young  master — mark  whether  Mis 
tress  Margery  be  wi'  him.  If  she  is,  come  back  at  once, 
an'  mind!  no  bow-twangin' ;  thou  mightst  be  heard. 
Go!"  As  Brad  set  off  at  a  long,  swinging  pace,  he 
continues,  "  and  bless  you,  my  boy  " 

"Ay,  Shem,  ye  may  well  say  bless  him,  for  he  is  the 
core  o'  my  heart,  the  varra  apple  o'  my  e'e,"  burst  in  his 
g"ood  wife  as  she  shuffles  in  at  the  doorway,  her  hands 
grasping  the  corners  of  her  apron,  while  on  her  broad 
shoulders  hangs  a  confused  mass  of  wet  fishing-tackle, 
cords,  hooks,  and  the  rest  of  the  paraphernalia  with 
which  his  lordship  had  been  thinning  the  scaly  denizens 
of  the  mere  over  the  low  hills. 

"It 's  thee,  is  it?"  Shem  stolidly  replies;  for, like  most 
of  his  class,  he  considers  "womenfolk"  good  for  no 
thing  but  to  obey  their  husbands,  particularly  if  said 
husbands  happen  to  be  gamekeepers. 

"  Ay,  it 's  me.  His  lordship  wants  you  to  clean  an' 
mend  the  tackle  weel,  an'  put  it  away  carefu'  like,  so 
that  it  will  not  rust." 

Debbie  Throck  is  the  cook  at  the  castle,  and  she  seems 
well  fitted  for  her  office  and  its  onerous  duties.  She  is 
robust  and  comely,  albeit  red  and  a  trifle  sooty,  for  she 
has  been  busily  engaged  all  the  morning  in  cooking  a 
dinner  to  please  the  palates  of  the  gentlefolk  who  are 
to  dine  with  his  lordship  to-day.  She  still  grasps  the 
corners  of  her  apron,  and  a  vast  sigh  heaves  the  ex 
panse  of  her  bosom  as  she  says:  "  Ah!  Shem,  to  think 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  23 

o  't,  all  the  gude  things  that  mun  be  sarvcd  at  table 
the  day — " 

"TJmph!"  interpolates  Shem. 

"Stewed  broth,  wheaten  flummery,  an'  hotchpot  to 
begin  on." 

He  licks  his  lips  and  frowns  slightly. 

"  Then  marrer  puddings  and  quakin'  puddings ;  then 
collops,  veal  toasts,  and  roasted  partridges." 

Shem  is  plainly  becoming  angry,  but  still  she  pursues 
her  tantalizing  catalogue. 

"  To  finish  up  wi'  custards,  caraway  cakes,  an'  pear 
puddings,  besides  the  syllabubs,  suckets,  and — " 

"  Stop  thy  rantin'  noise,  fule  1  What  need  to  tell  me  o' 
all  these  when  I  can  touch  naught  but  a  bit  o'  dry  ven'- 
son,  or  happen  a  roasted  partridg.e?" 

A  demure  look  twinkles  in  her  eyes,  which  he  seems 
familiar  with,  for  he  encircles  her  stout  waist  with  his 
arm,  and  growls  quite  amiably,  "  Come,  dame,  I  know 
thou  hast  summut  for  me:  come — what  is  it  ?" 

"  Go  away,  Shem ;  dost  see  how  ta  rumples  my  pinner 
and  a'  that 's  in  it  ?" 

He  at  once  transfers  his  arm  from  her  waist  to  the 
apron,  which,  he  observes,  contains  something  bulky. 

"  Ha'  done,  now ;  thou  'It  spoil  all 't  syllabub  if  thou  'rt 
not  more  carefu'." 

So  saying  she  gives  him  a  peep  at  the  contents  of  it. 

He  lifts  them  out  carefully  one  by  one — samples  of 
the  dishes  for  the  company — and  arranges  them  neatly  on 
his  ash  sideboard.  His  eyes  sparkle  as  he  discovers  fresh 
tidbits  at  every  incursion,  and  as  he  lifts  out  the  last, 
an  orange  sucket,  he  gives  her  a  sounding  kiss  in  sheer 
gratitude,  and  then  says,  in  a  shamefaced  sort  of  a 
manner,  "  Now,  dame,  they  may  want  thee  up  at  the 
kitchen."  She  seems  to  think  so  too,  and  sallies  to 
wards  her  own  quarter ;  but,  before  she  left,  she  said 


24  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

coaxingly,  "Shem,  be  kind  to  the  lad;  don't  be  over 
cross  wi'  him,  will  ye  ?"  "  All  right,  Debbie ;  I  can  ma 
nage,"  he  replied  in  a  confident  tone ;  but  whether  he 
referred  to  Brad  or  the  delicacies  on  the  sideboard  she 
was  doubtful. 

We  will  leave  Shem  arranging  the  fishing  tackle,  and 
watch  his  son's  conduct  in  his  new  position — a  spy — an 
office  he  hates  and  despises.  He  had  said  to  himself,  as 
he  left  his  father,  that  if  he  did  happen  to  see  those  for 
whom  he  searched,  he  would  not  let  a  soul  know  aught 
about  it  but  himself;  in  fact,  he  had  inwardly  deter 
mined  not  to  find  them  if  he  could  help  it. 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  She  rose,  she  sprung,  she  clung  to  hia  embrace, 
Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 
He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye, 
Which  downcast  droop'd  in  tearless  agony  ; 
Her  long  fair  hair  lay  flashing  o'er  his  arms, 
In  all  the  vrildness  of  dishevell'd  charms." 

MEDORA. 

"Thine  eyes'  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair." 

GENE YEA. 

A  FEW  yards  beyond  the  cultivated  portion  of  the 
Wharton  estate  is  a  clump  of  trees,  which  has  borne  from 
time  immemorial  the  name  of  Rooksnest,  on  account 
of  the  myriads  of  noisy  rooks  that  have  built  their  nests 
amid  the  leafy  boughs,  and  cawed  and  bred  in  bold  se 
curity  since  the  birth  of  the  first  Baron  of  the  Wharton 
line.  To  the  right  is  a  dripping,  unwholesome  den,  which 
penetrates  nearly  fifty  feet  into  the  solid  rock;  it  is 
known  all  the  country  .around  as  the  "Weird's  Cave." 
The  tradition  in  regard  to  it  runs  that,  over  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  years  ago  a  wizard,  or  one  who  passed  for 
such,  lived  here,  who  never  left  his  lair  unless  misfortune 
or  death  threatened  the  Wharton  family.  On  such  occa 
sions  he  would  totter  out  and  bring  with  him  some  rude 
symbol  to  typify  the  kind  of  misfortune  that  was  boding. 

The  old  Baron  had  held  him  in  great  respect,  and  in 
a  degree  even  stood  in  awe  of  him,  until  one  day  when  his 
eldest  born  was  leaving  the  castle  with  an  armed  retinue 
to  go  to  the  crusades,  the  wizard  prophesied  his  sudden 
death,  which  so  enraged  him  that  he  at  once  hung  him 
from  the  battlements  with  the  sneering  remark  that  "  as 
3 


26  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

he  was  so  ready  to  foretell  others'  deaths,  i  was  a  pity 
he  did  not  know  the»time  and  place  of  his  own  and  thus 
escape."  The  weird  had  replied  solemnty,  "  My  death 
will  not  prevent  his;  he  will  follow  me  ere  the  sun  grows 
yellow  in  the  west."  And,  sure  enough,  they  brought 
his  son  back  with  his  feet  to  the  door  and  a  Lochaber 
axe-cut  across  his  young  head  ;  he  had  been  killed  in  a 
brawl  with  a  hostile  retinue  scarcely  a  mile  from  the 
castle. 

There  is  not  a  man  in  the  county  who  cares  to  pass 
by  the  cave  at  night,  or  even  to  wander  too  near  it  in  day 
time,  there  are  so  many  treacherous  holes  and  slippery 
places  around  and  about  it.  Philip  alone  had  once  exa 
mined  its  interior,  and  brought  out  as  a  trophy  a  flint 
hatchet  of  uncouth  make,  deeply  cut  in  quaint  characters ; 
it  now  hangs  on  the  wall  in  the  banquet-room,  where 
it  is  regarded  with  awe  by  the  wondering  tenantry  and 
the  servants. 

Close  by  the  cave  begins  a  narrow,  sequestered  alley 
way,  reaching  far  away  into  the  forest ;  along  its  sides 
grow  in  profusion  many  varieties  of  vine-flowers,  the 
modest  lavender  and  the  delicious  sweetbrier,  which 
shed  their  refreshing  perfume  on  the  air;  above,  the 
patriarchal  trees  keep  silent  watch  and  ward,  lest  too 
much  sun  dispel  the  soothing,  transparent  darkness 
which  they  throw  over  the  scene ;  they  form  an  intricate 
roof  of  glorious  fretwork  through  which  blue  patches 
of  sky  are  now  and  then  perceptible  when  the  south  wind 
rolls  through  the  long  green  aisle  and  tosses  the  limbs 
to  and  fro,  making  the  cheery  sunlight  dance  in  quick 
measure  on  the  ground  and  flash  between  the  rustling 
leaves  which  sigh  at  the  gentle  tumult. 

The  yielding  turf,  here  green,  there  dun  or  black, 
forms  a  fitting  carpet  for  the  dainty  feet  of  the  lovely 
girl,  who  stands  so  quiet;  her  high-heeled  brode- 


OR,  PHILIP  DUKE   OF  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  27 

quins  are  of  pale  amber  silk,  with  coquettish  bows 
trinjhied  with  white  and  gold  lace ;  in  the  centre  of  each 
is  set  a  small  stone,  which  glows  and  sparkles  very 
prettily ;  and,  truly,  she  seems  to  admire  them  herself, 
for  her  eyes  are  fixed  intently  on  them,  as  she  stands  with 
one  charming  little  hand  resting  against  the  low,  droop 
ing  boughs  of  an  old  oak.  But  why  she  should  tremble, 
as  she  certainly  does,  and  breathe  so  quickly  as  to  cause 
her  young  bosom  to  rise- and  fall  so  tremulously,  demands 
a  stronger  reason  than  the  idle  inspection  of  the  most 
elaborate  slippers,  or  the  prettiest  French  bow,  affords. 
She  looks  like  a  picture  from  Lety,  with  its  languor 
and  wantonness  transformed  into  purity  and  innocence. 

Her  hair  diffuses  a  subtle  perfume  while  the  wind 
blows  it  to  and  fro  and  toys  caressingly  with  the  golden 
tresses ;  a  trustful,  devoted  expression  dwells  in  every 
feature  of  her  face,  and  fills  her  eyes,  which  are  as 
blue  as  the  sapphire  and  as  bright  as  a  fresh  dew- 
drop.  Her  brows  are  light  brown  and  delicately  curved, 
her  complexion  as  fresh  as  the  flowers  in  May.  Her 
figure  is  very  girlish,  and  shrinks  sensitively  from  the 
hand  which  rests  on  her  waist,  a  piece  of  officiousness 
she  hardly  knows  whether  to  pout  at  or  to  reward  with 
a  glance ;  but  the  struggle  is  not  long,  love  conquers,  and 
she  lays  her  blushing  face  on  her  lover's  shoulder,  whilst 
he,  with  face  suffused  with  happiness  unspeakable,  gently 
strokes  her  soft  hair,  kissing  it  with  a  vehemence  that 
tells  its  own  tale. 

"  Look  up,  sweetheart,"  he  says,  in  low  murmuring 
tones.  "  Look  up,  that  I  may  read  in  your  eyes  whether 
your  love  can  fathom  mine." 

She  bends  her  head  back,  looking  him  fairly  in  the 
eyes  with  such  a  look  of  passionate  devotion  that  his 
head  turns  around  with  the  sight,  and  a  giddiness  for 
the  moment  overpowers  him ;  he  lowers  his  face  nearer 


28  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

and  nearer  to  hers,  and  drinks  in  her  every  beauty  in  an 
intoxicating  draught,  until  her  eyes  close  in  ecstatic  joy. 

Here  in  the  dim  light,  and  amid  the  sweet  perfumes 
of  the  wild  flowers,  their  breaths  mingle  and  send 
Cupid's  arrows  stinging  through  all  their  veins. 

"Margery,  love,  my  own,  why  do  you  tremble?     If 

there  did  happen  to  be  anybody  espying   us ."     She 

started,  but  Philip  soon  reassures  her  by  a  never-failing 
method  in  such  cases. 

"  They  might  compare  me  to  a  gerfalcon  flown  at  a 
dove ;  one  would  not  think  you  were  a  soldier's  daugh 
ter." 

"  Philip,"  she  replies  in  a  hurt  manner,  and  with  a 
little  quiver  of  her  red  lips,  "you  call  me  a  coward;  I 
am  when  our  love  is  concerned ;  in  aught  else,  try  me, 
and  you  will  find  I  am  still  a  Holmes." 

"  Tut,  darling,  I  was  but  joking." 

She  looks  at  him  long  and  earnestly,  as  if  a  new  thought 
had  struck  her.  "Philip,  will  you  always  love  me  as 
now?  I  know  that  if  you  should  ever  grow  to  hate  me, 
or  even  if  you  should  ever  fail  to  love  me  above  all 
others,  it  would  break  my  heart." 

He  looks  tenderly  at  her,  and  replies,  "Margery,  if 
all  England's  beauties — but  I'll  recite  you  a  few  lines  of 
a  great  dean's  poem  which  will  tell  you  in  better  words 
than  mine  what  you  already  know." 

A  half  thought  forms  in  her  mind  to  deny  the  possi 
bility  of  the  dean  speaking*better  or  even  as  well  as  her 
Philip,  but  she  fears  to  offend  him,  and  he  recites  in  a  . 
low  voice  Swift's  "  Receipt  to  Form  a  Beauty,"  a  sonnet 
on  Mrs  Biddy  Floyd,  which  is  ingenious  and  witty. 
In  the  last  line  he  said  "  Holmes" instead  of  "Floyd,"  a 
change  which  destroyed  the  rhyme,  but  added  to  its 
truthfulness,  in  Philip's  opinion  at  all  events. 

As  he  finishes,  she  enunciates  demurely,  yet  with  an 


OB,  PHILIP  DUKE  OP  WHARTON'S  CAREER.  29 

anxious  expression,  "Lord  Wharton!"  His  face  grows 
pale  and  angry,  and  he  makes  no  answer  except  to  strain 
her  more  tightly  in  his  arms.  Apparently  he  hears  some 
body  in  the  bushes,  and  he  steps  hurriedly  to  the  place 
whence  the  noise  comes.  He  looks  carefully  around; 
there  is  no  one  in  sight,  and  he  can  hear  nothing  except 
a  mellow  whistling  in  the  distance  which  he  recognizes  as 
Brad  Throck's ;  he  returns  to  his  frightened  sweetheart 
and  says  regretfully,  "  'Tis  time  for  us  to  part,  and 
Margery,  if  by  any  chance  your  father  does  find  out  our 
meetings,  you  will  always  find  a  trusty  fellow  in  Maldran 
Gudru  the  gypsy." 

"  Oh !  Philip,  I  always  feel  afraid  when  he  is  about, 
his  eyes  are  so  black  and  treacherous ;  he  never  looks 
me  in  the  face,  I  would  be  afraid  to  trust  him." 

"  You  are  childish,  little  one.  Why  should  he  betray 
us?"  he  replies,  in  a  chiding  tone. 

She  answers,  rather  timidly,  and  with  a  downward 
look,  "  I  fear  me  he  is  more  faithful  to  your  father  than 
to  you." 

He  laughs  incredulously,  as  he  well  knows  the  power 
of  his  fascinating  qualities  over  most  people,  and  keeps 
them  bright  by  constant  use. 

To  explain  the  secrecy  of  their  meetings,  it  is  neces 
sary  to  recount  circumstances  which  happened  some  time 
before. 

Margery  and  Philip  from  their  infancy  had  been  play 
mates  and  inseparable  companions ;  as  a  natural  conse 
quence  a  mutual  love  had  taken  possession  of  them, 
which  grew  stronger  and  deeper  as  they  grew  older;  this 
Lord  Wharton  with  his  usual  penetration  had  noticed, 
and  noticed  with  some  uneasiness ;  accordingly,  he  deter 
mined  to  put  an  end  to  their  further  companionship, 
fearful  lest  Philip  might  balk  his  future  intentions  by 
declining  to  espouse  the  noble  dame  he  had  secretly  se- 

3* 


30  HIMSELF  HIS  WOEST  ENEMY; 

lected  for  him — an  alliance  with  whom  would  strengthen 
his  political  influence,  and  also  still  further  enrich  his 
overflowing  coffers.  His  first  measure  was  to  forbid 
Philip  ever  to  see  her  again  in  private ;  his  second  was 
to  converse  with  her  ladyship  in  a  loud  tone  about  the 
insolence  of  a  Holmes  wishing  to  ally  herself  with  his 
family.  The  servants  as  a  matter  of  course  heard  the 
remarks,  which  in  a  short  time  reached  the  ears  of  the 
irate  General,  who  was  so  incensed  at  the  arrogance  of 
his  neighbor  that  he  peremptorily  forbade  Margery  ever 
to  speak  or  correspond  with  Philip  again.  So  matters 
stand — diplomacy  and  experience  against  love  and  inno 
cence  ;  the  old,  old  tale  on  which  so  many  changes  have 
been  rung,  and  will  be  rung  until  the  sun  ceases  to  rise 
and  the  world  to  revolve. 

To  resume,  Philip  replies  excitedly, "  Let  them  find  us 
together ;  let  them  send  their  spies  to  watch  our  slightest 
movements ;  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  there  are 
other  places  in  the  world  besides  Buck's  1" 

She  looks  pained  at  his  words,  and  replies  in  a  pleading, 
soothing  manner:  "Please  don't,  dear — I  could  never 
consent  to  leave  my  poor  old  father  alone  and  desolate; 
mother  is  in  the  kirkyard,  now,  and  I  am  the  only  one 
he  has  to  love  or  be  loved  by  now." 

"Then  leave  me,"  he  says  abruptly;  nevertheless,  he 
continues  to  hold  her  closely  to  him  ;  she  is  pained  and 
perplexed ;  her  blue  eyes  grow  brighter  as  she  nervously 
twitches  the  long  points  of  her  laced  sleeves. 

"We  will  not  talk  about  it,  Philip  dear,  will  we?"  she 
says,  after  a  short  interval.  "  I  will  tell  you  about  my 
visit  to  Queenie,  and  what  she — " 

"  Wait  a  bit,  Margery;  now  tell  me  wBat  you  went  to 
see  her  for?" 

She  answers  him  with  a  sweet  smile  on  her  lips,  and 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S  CAREER.  31 

without  the  slightest  hesitation,  "  I  thought  you  might 
be  there." 

"  I  thought  so,"  he  replies,  rather  egotistically. 

"Well,  she  seemed  very  angry  and  excited  when  I 
entered,  and  she  showed  me  the  portrait  of  a  very  pretty 
girl,  who  she  said  had  been  a  great  friend  to  her  when 
she  was  a  little  child;  she  said  that  a  noble  gentleman 
had  done  this  girl  a  great  harm,  and  that  if  he  did  not  give 
her  enough  money  to  support  herself  on  until  she  died, 
she,  Queenie  you  know,  would  avenge  her.  I  asked 
her  his  name,  but  she  replied,  with  such  a  curious  smile, 
Philip!  that  I  might  learn  it  soon  enough,  and  she 
was  silent  for  a  long  while ;  then  said  suddenly, '  Mistress 
Margery,  Master  Philip  was  here  yest're'eu,  and  I  read 
him  his  fortune.' " 

"  Yes,  I  recollect  she  did  tell  me  a  heap  of  wonderful 
things — but  proceed  with  your  tale,  sweetheart." 

"  '  His  life,'  she  said,  and  I  almost  hate  her  for  it, '  will 
be  an  expiation  of  another's  sin,  his  path  will  be  crossed 
by  one  of  his  own  race,  and  he  will  never  know  peace 
until  the  expiation  is  accomplished.' " 

He  laughs  as  he  listens  to  the  wild  recital,  and  feels 
glad  to  think  that  Margery  should  become  so  excited  at 
the  gypsy  queen's  foolish  words. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  she  resumed,  "  Queenie  told  me  the 

girl's  name ;  it  was  Nelly — Nelly I  forget  the  last, 

but  it  is  no  matter,  is  it?"  as  if  she  dreads  displeasing 
him. 

*'  I'  faith,  no.  What  should  I  want  to  know  about  Nelly 
unknown  or  anybody  else  when  I  have  you,  sweetheart?" 
She  looks  happier,  and  a  brighter  light  illumines  her  eyes 
at  his  fond  words.  I 

Brad  returned  to  %e  lodge  and  dutifully  told  his 
father  that  he  had  been  unable  to  see  Mrs.  Margery, 
but  had  seen  Master  Philip,  who  was  tracking  for  deer 


32  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST  ENEMY; 

in  the  forest  and  seemed  rather  unlucky.  He  was  an 
swered  in  this  strain  by  the  suspicious  Shem:  "I'll  be 
bound,  thou  glamourin'  skipjack,  that  thou  looked  not 
too  hard  for  either;  like  enow  thou  'st  been  trackin' 
thy  own  game — Meg  Busbie,  wi'  her  finicky  gewgaws  an' 
her  flighty  ribbons  an'  graces ;  I  knaw  weel  what  thou  'rt 
after,  so  don't  stop  glowerin'  there  like  a  deer  in  a  covert, 
but  set  thee  down  an'  eat  th'  dinner ;  for  th'  mun  be  rare 
an'  hungry."  He  took  his  plate  and  helped  him  with  a 
wooden  spoon  to  an  immense  quantity  of  hot  pease  and 
pudding,  and  a  glass  of  bubbling,  humming  mead. 

Brad  smiled  covertly,  and  proceeded  to  refresh  his  in 
ner  man,  an  operation  for  which  he  was  always  ready. 
He  had  the  reputation  of  being  the  strongest,  healthiest 
lad  on  the  estate,  and  of  course  it  took  a  deal  of  food  to 
keep  his  appetite  down ;  in  fact,  when  he  was  smaller,  the 
chaplain,  a  learned  man,  had  playfully  christened  him 
"  Omnivorous  Brad ;"  a  cognomen  which  still  sticks  to 
him;  but  it  has  been  corrupted  by  his  comrades  into 
"Nevereat,"  which  rolls  off  the  tongue  more  easily  than 
its  ponderous  origin. 


OR,  PHILIP  DUKE  OP  WHARTON'S  CAREER.         33 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Don  John. — I  heard  him  swear  his  affection. 
Bora. — So  did  I  too  ;  and  he  swore  he  would  marry  her  to-night. 
Don  John. — Come,  let  us  to  the  banquet." 

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  II.  i. 

THE  Wharton  banqueting-hall  is  fully  a  hundred  feet 
long  and  about  half  as  wide ;  at  both  ends  glow  two  deli 
cately-stained,  deeply-embrasured  windows,  which  reach 
from  the  shining  floor  to  the  groined  ceiling.  On  either 
side  is  a  large  fireplace  set  in  with  Dutch  tiles,  which 
are  painted  in  stiff,  quaint  designs;  each  fender  is 
guarded  by  stone  dogs,  one  of  which  has  had  half  its 
nose  chipped  off,  probably  in  some  bygone  brawl  of 
Cavaliers  and  Covenanters. 

The  ponderous  sideboards  are  carved  with  bacchana 
lian  subjects,  satyrs,  vine-leaves,  and  the  jolly  Bacchus, 
who  disports  himself  in  attitudes  free  and  wanton,  while 
the  grinning  satyrs  and  the  dancing  fauns  keep  time 
with  pipe  and  feet. 

The  walls  are  panelled,  and  decorated  in  a  fanciful 
manner  with  pictures  that  have  reference  to  feasting  and 
gayety — all  except  one,  a  portrait  which  hangs  over  the 
high  mantel ;  it  is  the  full-length  figure  of  a  stern, 
gloomy,  straight-haired  Cavalier ;  in  his  right  hand  he 
holds  a  Bible,  the  left  grasps  a  long,  bell-mouthed  petro- 
nel ;  it  is  old  Sir  Philip,  the  father  of  the  present  Lord 
Wharton.  One  of  his  eyes  is  shot  out,  and  in  its  place 
is  a  round,  jagged  bullet  hole ;  it  was  his  loving  son 
who  had  maltreated  it  in  this  manner  after  he  had  re- 


34  HIMSELF  HIS  "WORST  ENEMY  J 

ceived  a  lesson  in  obedience  from  him  -when  he  was 
young  and  insubordinate  to  the  authorities  that  were. 

Lord  Wharton  often  tells  the  occurrence  with  many 
a  laugh  and  jest,  and  avers  that  he  keeps  it  there  as  a 
Roman  of  old  did  his  skeleton,  to  remind  him  of  the 
shortness  of  life,  and  the  wisdom  of  enjoying  the  pass 
ing  hour. 

The  table  is  set  with  all  the  ceremony  and  profusion 
usual  on  such  occasions,  and  the  serving-men  and  the 
carvers  await  the  advent  of  the  guests  to  begin  pro 
ceedings.  They  have  not  long  to  wait ;  the  doors  fly 
open  swiftly  and  noiselessly;  "Wharton  and  his  guests 
stroll  in,  laughing  noisily,  and  exchanging  free  jests 
and  stinging  repartees.  Carelessly  resting  his  hand  on 
Wharton's  shoulder,  and,  to  judge  by  the  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  retailing  a  famous  bit  of  court-scandal  or  town-talk, 
is  the  nobleman,  whose  arrogance,  vanity,  and  venality 
have  long  since  passed  into  a  proverb.  He  has  passed 
over  fifty  years  of  intrigue,  politics,  and  turmoil,  but, 
to  judge  by  his  smiling  face  and  his  jovial  manner,  one 
would  never  imagine  that  in  that  time  he  had  been  con 
tinually  involved  in  the  wildest  schemes  and  the  most 
daring  villanies ;  he  is  of  medium  height,  and  dressed  with 
scrupulous  care  in  a  costume  of  black  velvet,  with  laced 
and  slashed  satin  trunks.  On  his  breast  glitter  and  tin 
kle  the  many  orders  of  which  he  is  a  member;  most  of 
these  he  has  acquired  by  acts  which  any  courtier  might  feel 
too  modest  to  own ;  he  is  known  as  Charles  Montague, 
Earl  of  Halifax,  Dryden's  parodist,  and  the  author  of  a 
poem  on  the  death  of  Charles  II.,  which  procured  him 
the  friendship  of  the  powerful  Earl  of  Dorset,  as  well  as 
an  introduction  to  Will's  coflee-house,  with  its  attendant 
profligacy  and  cold-hearted  libertinism. 

Here  is  the  venerable  Lord  Somers,  whose  long-flow 
ing  wig,  calm,  sedate  face,  and  magisterial  air  give  him 


OR,  PHILIP  DUKE  OF  WHARTON'S  CAREER.  35 

a  look  of  quiet  dignity  which  well  befits  the  representative 
of  so  many  high  posts  and  honors,  and  one  who  single- 
handed  coped  with  fourteen  distinct  charges,  as  false 
and  as  dangerously  sophistical  as  Belial  himself  could 
possibly  devise,  brought  against  him  by  cunning  and 
powerful  enemies,  and  overthrew  them  all. 

Close  by  him  is  a  tall,  large-chested,  robust  man, 
dressed  in  plain  black ;  his  features  are  strongly  marked 
and  manly ;  his  keen  blue  eyes  penetrate  and  scrutinize 
everything  and  everybody ;  a  sarcastic  smile  hovers 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth;  and  as  he  converses 
with  the  gentlemen  near  him  he  speaks  quickly,  and 
snaps  his  thumbs  energetically,  as  if  the  subject  under  dis 
cussion  were  of  great  interest.  You  possibly  recognize 
him  ?  Dean  Swift  1  What  sad  memories  of  poor  Stella 
and  Vanessa  does  that  name  recall!  Did  he  never  think 
regretfully  of  the  unhappiness  he  had  caused  ?  The  first 
so  trustful  and  devoted,  who  gave  him  the  name  by  which 
he  always  wished  her  to  call  him ;  once  he  was  happy 
only  when  she  was  by  his  side,  commanding  him  in 
girlish  pettishness,  "  Presto,  come  and  tell  me  what  this 
is,"  or  "  Darling  Presto,  you  must  take  me  to  the  fields 
to-morrow."  The  other  so  reserved  and  haughty  to  all 
others,  yet  so  humble  and  loving  when  he  was  with  her. 
The  man  who  could  thus  fill  the  hearts  of  two  such 
women  with  undivided  love  must  have  possessed  a 
power  of  fascination  which  he  did  not  always  choose  to 
exert,  or  else  he  certainly  would  not  have  had  so  many 
enemies  as  he  did  have,  even  with  all  his  vile  caustic 
lampoons,  his  party  squibs  and  satires. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  Swift  is  here,  whose  Tory 
propensities  and  personal  animosity  towards  his  host 
are  well  known,  but  he  is  an  erratic  being,  and  this 
is  possibly  one  of  his  freaks;  or  just  as  likely,  his  pre 
sence  may  be  ascribed  to  the  workings  of  his  astute  host, 


36  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST  ENEMY  J 

who  has  always  regretted  his  attachment  to  the  Tory  inte 
rest  ;  however,  be  it  as  it  may,  he  is  always  welcome  among 
those  who  appreciate  wit  and  learning,  even  if  the  wit  is 
directed  against  themselves,  and  the  learning  is  of  rather 
a  truculent  nature.  The  remainder  of  the  guests  are 
Whig  notabilities,  or  those  who  their  designing  enter 
tainer  intends  shall  be,  if  it  lies  in  his  power  so  to  make 
them. 

The  conversation  at  table  is  rather  freer  than  I  care 
to  chronicle,  so  loose  are  the  morals  and  So  depraved 
the  ideas  of  the  gentlemen  of  this  period. 

After  a  reasonable  time  has  been  allowed  for  the  dis 
cussion  of  the  well-furnished  table,  "Wharton  rises  and 
proposes  the  following  toast :  "  Her  sacred  Majesty  and 
the  party  which  supports  her!" 

"Umphl"  sneers  the  genial  dean.  "Pity  she  can't 
support  the  party;  but — ."  His,  the  only  voice  that  did 
not  join  in  the  cheer,  is  drowned  in  the  din. 

Montague,  who  has  heard  Swift's  sneering  remark, 
rises,  and  as  soon  as  the  noise  abates,  he  says  meaningly, 
"  Gentlemen,  I  have  a  toast  to  propose  which  1  am  sure 
will  mightily  please  all  that  are  here."  He  holds  his 
goblet  poised  in  his  jewelled  hand.  "  To  Cervantes  and 
Rabelais  as  original  writers,  and  to  Lady  Somerset  as  a 
true  woman." 

It  is  a  common  charge  of  the  dean's  enemies  that  he 
plagiarized  from  these  two  authors — a  lie,  for  his  was  a 
genius  that  only  borrowed  from  itself,  but  still  any 
mention  of  the  ridiculous  charge  sorely  vexes  him. 
Lady  Somerset  is  his  bitter  enemy,  so  it  is  plainly  to  be 
seen  that  the  Earl  intended  the  toast  for  his  especial 
benefit,  especially  as  they  are  not  on  the  best  of  terms. 

The  Dean  drained  his  goblet  in  company  with  the 
others,  and  is  now  standing  erect  and  looking  straight 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF  WHARTON'S  CAREER.  37 

at  Montague,  with  his  blue  eyes  scintillating  ominously. 
Again  he  fills  his  goblet. 

"My  Lord  Montague,  it  ill  becomes  you  above  all 
others  to  touch  on  so  delicate  a  subject  as  stealing — 
you,  who  were  once  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  I  As 
for  the  Duchess  of  Somerset,  I  respect  her  as  an  enemy, 
but  would  hate  her  as  a  friend."  He  raises  his  goblet. 
"  To  the  memory  of  Cervantes,  Rabelais,  and  the  Duchess 
of  Somerset"  (he  bows  obsequiously),  "  and  to  yourself, 
and  any  other  gentleman  who  wishes  to  take  it  to  him 
self." 

He  drains  his  goblet,  and  turns  it  bottom  upwards  on 
the  table.  There  is  a  hush  of  expectancy,  and  all  eyes 
are  turned  on  the  Earl.  He  is  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and 
plays  nervously  with  the  scented  curls  of  his  French 
peruke. 

Wharton,  seeing  a  brawl  impending,  rises,  and  says 
calmly :  "  Gentlemen,  I  pray  your  attention  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  I  will  recite  to  you  what  pleased  me  vastly 
when  I  read  it ;  I  think  it  will  please  you  too.  It  is 
a  selection  from  a  poem  by  that  marvellous  clever 
fellow,  Gay." 

With  graceful  gestures,  and  in  a  loud,  sonorous  voice, 
he  reads : — 

"  Far  in  Cythera  stands  a  spacious  grove, 
Sacred  to  Venus  and  the  god  of  love ; 
Here  the  luxuriant  myrtle  rears  her  head, 
Like  the  tall  oak  the  fragrant  branches  spread ; 
Here  Nature  all  her  sweets  profusely  pours, 
And  paints  the  enamell'd  ground  •with  various  flowers; 
Deep  in  the  gloomy  glade  a  grotto  bends, 
Wide  through  the  craggy  rock  an  arch  extends. 
The  rugged  stone  is  cloth'd  with  mantling  vines, 
And  'round  the  cave  the  creeping  woodbine  twines." 

All  listen  attentively,  thankful  for  their  entertainer's 
kindly  tact  in  preventing  a  quarrel  at  table. 
4 


38  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Swift's  countenance  beamed  with  delight  while  it  was 
being  read,  for  Gay  is  one  of  his  few  favorites,  and  he  is 
now  loud  in  his  praises  of  its  excellences. 

Comments  on  the  poet's  style  and  sentiments  pass 
around  the  board ;  some  favorable,  others  unfavorable ; 
the  latter  unfortunates  the  Dean  attacks  with  spirit,  and 
vindicates  every  word  or  line  carped  at  or  ridiculed. 

•  Lord  Somers,  who  has  for  some  time  been  the  centre 
of  an  engrossed  admiring  group,  is  about  to  speak,  and 
rises  slowly  to  his  feet ;  but,  unfortunately,  at  this  in 
stant,  a  rich  harmonious  tenor  trolls  out  the  famous 
Jacobite  song  of  "  Charlie  over  the  "Water." 

All  listen  in  blank  amazement,  and  several  instinc 
tively  lay  their  hands  on  their  rapiers  ;  some  tarn 
to  see  whence  comes  the  treasonous  refrain.  Still  it 
rings  high  and  clear  above  their  astonished  heads,  until 
Wharton  looks  up,  and  starts  with  surprise  and  anger. 
All  eyes  follow  the  direction  of  his,  and  lo!  high  up 
in  the  embrasured  window,  with  his  head  touching  the 
groined  arch,  and  his  feet  supported  by  the  heavy  mould 
ing,  stands,  or  rather  clings,  his  son  Philip,  the  destined 
prop  of  the  Whigs. 

He  looks  down  on  the  astonished  guests  with  a  mock 
ing  smile  on  his  lips,  and  finishes  his  song  with  a  merry 
laugh,  and  a  pert  request  to  Swift  to  throw  him  an 
orange.  He,  fully  alive  to  the  humor  and  spiciness  of 
the  affair,  tosses  one  up  to  the  young  scapegrace ;  he 
catches  it  deftly  in  his  loose  hand,  and  lays  it  on  the 
ledge  of  a  grotesque  corbel,  directly  under  his  feet.  This 
done,  he  places  his  heel  on  it,  and  crushes  it  with  such 
hearty  good-will  that  the  juice  and  pips  go  flying  about 
the  room  and  on  the  table. 

"  Long  live  the  Hanoverian  rats,"  he  cries  satirically, 
and  adds  in  earnest  tones,  "  and  God  help  poor  King 
Jamiel" 


OR,  PHILIP  DUKE   OP  .WHAETON'S   CAREER.  39 

lie  begins  to  descend  from  his  perilous  position,  and 
finally  bounds  in  safety  to  the  floor.  He  bows  grace 
fully,  and  stands  erect  and  confident,  as  though  he  a^aaits 
the  reward  which  surely  must  follow  so  good  an  action 
as  he  has  just  performed. 

lie  knows  well  that  his  father's  sentiments,  and  also 
the  sentiments  of  his  guests,  with  one  or  two  exceptions, 
are  eminently  loyal,  and  obnoxious  to  the  claims  of  the 
Pretender,  or  James  III.,  as  his  adherents  call  him. 

Wharton  says,  in  a  stern,  suppressed  voice :  "  Philip, 
seat  yourself!"  lie  does  as  he  is  commanded,  and  set 
tles  himself  in  a  chair  close  to  Swift,  with  the  finical 
affections  of  a  beau  as  to  whether  his  rapier  hangs 
correctly,  or  the  skirts  of  his  satin  coat  crease  elegantly. 
He  pulls  his  lace  ruffles  daintily  over  his  hands.  These 
slight  details  satisfactorily  arranged,  he  looks  at  his 
father,  and  lifts  his  eyebrows  interrogatively. 

"  Philip,  you  must  either  retract  what  you  have  said, 
and  drink  to  the  health  and  prosperity  of  her  sacred 
Majesty,  and  to  the  eternal  perdition  of  the  Pretender 
and  his  cause,  or,  by  God !  I'll  disown  j^ou.  Make  your 
choice  quickly,  and  in  the  presence  of  these  gentlemen 
whom  you  have  insulted."  He  stops  abruptly ;  his  lips 
tightly  compressed,  and  his  hands  twitching  violently. 

Philip  is  about  to  answer  him  with  hot,  angry  words, 
but  Swift  breaks  in  :  "  My  lord,  mayhap  Master  Philip 
does  not  wish  to  drink ;  I,  for  one,  would  be  satisfied  if 
he  but  admitted  that  he  was  not  in  earnest." 

The  rest  of  the  guests  declare  the  same ;  and  Whar 
ton,  who  fears  that  he  might  refuse  to  drink  the  toast, 
wisely  acquiesces,  and  chokes  down  his  wrath. 

Philip  rises  and  says,  with  an  affectation  of  perfect 
sincerity :  "  Gentlemen,  I  candidly  acknowledge  to  you 
that  I  did  not  mean  all  I  said."  He  adds  in  alow  tone, 
which  none  hear  but  Swift:  "And  that  part  is  'Long 
live  the  Hanoverian.' " 


40  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY J 

He  turns  to  his  father  and  says  respectfully :  "  Is  it 
your  wish  that  I  retire?"  He  nods  his  head,  and  Philip 
saunters  slowly  out.  As  he  passes  the  orange  he  grinds 
it  again  with  his  heel,  and  mutters  "  Nassau — seesaw ; 
it  may  be  my  turn  next." 

Ere  long  the  company  disperse,  and  leave  my  lord 
to  the  companionship  of  his  thoughts,  which  are  appa 
rently  not  of  the  most  pleasant  nature.  His  brow  is 
knit  and  furrowed,  and  his  face  is  troubled.  His  capa 
cious  mind  is  taxed  to  its  utmost  limit  for  schemes  to 
ruin  the  ascendency  of  the  Tories,  who,  with  Harley  at 
their  head,  give  him  g'reat  uneasiness  by  their  bold 
movements  and  subtle  machinations,  which,  together 
with  the  unfavorable  popular  opinion  of  the  "Whigs,  in 
consequence  of  the  trial  of  Dr.  Sacheverell  for  his  ser 
mons  concerning  the  doctrine  of  passive  obedience;  gave 
the  Tories  many  advantages.  The  Whigs  are  under  the 
direction  of  Godolphin,  whose  egregious  blunder  was  so 
hurtful  to  his  party.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  trial  bon 
fires  were  lighted,  and  his  name  was  shouted  with  cheers 
and  acclamations ;  while  Godolphin's  met  with  groans 
and  hisses.  These  same  riotous  proceedings  were  re 
peated  on  the  expiration  of  his  sentence,  and  it  seems 
inevitable  that  Harley  will  now  carry  things  with  a 
high  hand;  while  at  the  ear  of  majesty  itself  whispers 
the  Tory  tool — handsome,  fascinating  Mistress  Abigail 
Masham,  who  has  superseded  the  vixenish  Sarah, 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  who  had  herself  made  Mis 
tress  Abbie  lady  of  the  bedchamber,  whence  she  has 
worked  herself  into  the  love  of  her  royal  mistress. 
Wharton  muses  regretfully  over  his  part}r's  lost  power, 
and  the  defeat  of  their  pet  measure — the  continuance 
of  the  war  with  France,  which,  had  it  been  carried  on, 
would  certainly  have  brought  the  Bourbon  rule  in  Spain 
to  a  conclusion. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE    OF   WIIARTON'S   CAREER.  41 


CHAPTER  V. 

Theseus. — "Our  proposed  hunting  shall  he  set  aside." 

MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.  III.  I. 

Puck. — "  Yet  but  three  ?     Come  one  more." 

MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.  III.  n. 

PHILTP  is  going  a  deerstalking  to-day  with  Shem  and 
his  son.  He  is  a  keen  sportsman,  and  loves  dearly  to 
send  a  whizzing  shaft  clean  home  to  the  feather  in  the 
noble  game  as  it  in  vain  strives  to  outstrip  the  messenger 
of  death  which  springs  with  a  twang  from  the  strong 
ashen  bow. 

It  is  early  morn,  and  the  sun  is  yet  entangled  in  the 
branches  and  limbs  of  the  forest,  and  has  still  the  heavy 
dew  to  drink  and  the  rolling  mist  to  scatter. 

All  three  are  on  horseback.  Philip  and  Shem  are  con 
versing  anent  slots  and  scents,  and  counters,  and  such 
like  jargon  of  the  hunting  field.  Brad  canters  respect 
fully  behind  with  the  crossbows  and  ropes  to  pack  the 
carcass,  with,  and  he  also  keeps  the  hounds  in  leash  who 
are  fresh  and  unruly. 

The  lair  is  empty,  but  the  shape  of  the  buck's  body  is 
plainly  discernible  in  the  flattened  grass.  Shem  makes 
a  motion  to  jump  from  his  horse,  but  Philip  anticipates 
him,  and,  laying  his  hand  on  the  recent  bed,  exclaims 
in  loud  tones,  "  It  is  warm,  Shem ;"  and  his  eye  betokens 
his  satisfaction. 

Shem  scans  it  narrowly,  and  replies,  "  Ay,  he  is  none 
far  away."  The  hounds  find  the  scent,  and  begin  to 
whimper  and  strain  in  their  leashes ;  but  a  stern  "  Back  1 
4* 


42  HIMSELF    HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

back!  Soft  I  softl"  from  Brad  quiets  them  at  once,  and 
they  stand  like  statues — heads  outstretched  and  nostrils 
distended. 

Philip  is  just  about  to  order  Brad  to  unleash  the 
hounds,  when  a  black-eyed,  weather-rusted  gypsy  thrusts 
aside  the  bushes  near  the  lair,  bows  low  to  Philip,  and 
places  a  note  in  his  hands.  He  is  one  of  a  gang  that 
Lord  Wharton  allows  to  live  unmolested  on  his  estate, 
and  to  whom  he  occasionally  gives  a  feast  in  his  kitchen 
— which  kindnesses  have  so  endeared  him  to  the  impres 
sionable  Ishmaelites,  that  they  would  do  anything  to 
please  him. 

Philip  offers  to  reward  him,  but  he,  shaking  his  head, 
retires  as  silently  as  he  came. 

Philip  recognizes  the  superscription  on  the  letter  as 
Margery's  writing.  Bidding  Shem  to  wait  a  moment, 
he  breaks  the  seal  with  glad  eagerness.  He  is  half 
afraid  to  learn  the  contents  for  fear  something  evil  has 
happened  to  her.  He  spreads  the  little,  scented  sheet, 
and  reads  in  a  low  tone. 

"  My  own  darling  PHILIP  :  Love,  my  own,  I  will  be  at 
Rooksnest  at  midday.  I  have  no  time  to  write  any 
more,  so  good-bye.  Your  true  MARGERY. 

HOLME  GRANGE." 

• 
He  calculates  what  time  he  has  left  for  the  chase,  and 

finds  that  he  will  have  to  start  for  the  trysting-place 
before  they  could  hope  to  run  the  buck  down,  for  Shem's 
experience  -declares  it  to  be  full-grown,  and  one  which 
would  lead  them  a  long  chase  ere  he  would  consent  to 
stand  at  bay  to  receive  a  huntsman's  keen,  glittering 
knife  deep  in  his  panting  side.  So  bidding  them  good- 
speed,  he  turns  back  to  Rooksnest,  his  heart  bounding 
in  anticipation  of  the  meeting  with  his  bonnie  Margery. 
He  tries  to  sing,  but  for  very  joy  he  cannot,  and  the 


OB,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON's   CAREER.  43 

words  are  choked  and  indistinct.  Taking  the  missive 
from  his  pocket,  he  re-reads  it,  to  be  sure  that  his  eyes 
had  not  deceived  him.  He  has  not  seen  her  for  a  whole 
week,  nor  has  even  had  a  line  from  her  until  to-day.  He 
has  not  even  been  able  to  write  to  her,  so  closely  has  she 
been  watched  by  her  offended  father.  How  she  can  get 
out  to  meet  him  he  cannot  surmise ;  nor  does  he  care ;  if 
only  she  is  there,  he  will  be  content. 

He  is  now  within  a  few  yards  of  the  Holmes'  Estate, 
which  is  contiguous  to  his  father's.  Thinking  he  hears, 
above  the  rustle  of  the  trees  and  the  purling  of  the  brook 
which  runs  close  by,  voices  in  angry  discussion,  one  of 
which  resembles  his  father's,  he  presses  forward  to  see 
who  they  are  that  converse  in  so  high  a  tone.  A  thought 
decides  him  to  peer  through  the  trees  hiding  the  dispu 
tants  from  his  view. 

A  sickening  sensation  chills  his  blood  as  he  perceives 
his  father  and  General  Holmes  standing  face  to  face, 
their  eyes  flashing,  and  speaking  in  angry  tones.  Little 
Margery  leans  trembling  against  a  neighboring  tree ;  her 
hands  are  clasped  on  her  throat,  and  her  face  pales  and 
flushes  alternately.  Her  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  angry  men 
with  a  pleading,  pitiful  expression  that  goes  straight  to 
Philip's  heart. 

As  he  gazes  fascinated  on  a  scene  which  fills  him  with 
the  liveliest  apprehension,  the  General  says,  in  an  ex 
cited  manner,  "  My  lord,  your  charges  are  false,  and  at 
some  other  time" — he  glances  at  his  daughter,  who  turns 
her  eyes  on  the  ground — "  I  will  prove  my  words,  either 
at  the  sword's  point,  or  in  any  way  most  agreeable  to 
your  lordship!" 

"  General,"  Wharton  replies,  in  icy,  cutting  tones,  and 
with  punctilious  gestures,  "  whenever  and  wherever  you 
please."  He  raises  his  hat  to  Mistress  Margery  and 
bows  lowly  to  her  father. 


44  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

Philip  determines  at  all  hazards  to  interfere,  and  if 
possible  prevent  the  duel  which  he  sees  must  take  place 
if  they  part  in  this  manner.  He  is  aware  of  his  father's 
aversion  to  both  the  General  and  to  Margery — to  him  for 
his  politics,  and  to  her  for  Philip's  love  towards  her ; 
and  he  dreads  his  father's  masterly  use  of  the  rapier, 
feeling  sure  that  he  would  not  lose  such  an  opportunity 
as  the  duel  presented,  to  place  an  impassable  barrier  be 
tween  their  union.  Throwing  himself  at  his  father's  feet, 
he  cries,  "Spare  him  for  her  sake!  I  could  not  live 
without  her!" 

Wharton  looks  down  on  his  son  with  surprise  and 
vexation  depicted  on  his  countenance. 

"  Philip,  rise  at  once  I  cease  this  masquerading !  How 
came  you  here  ?  Methinks  your  chase  of  the  wild  deer 
has  not  been  a  long  one,  since  you  have  had  time  to  quarry 
other  game  so  successfully."  He  twitches  his  thumb 
in  the  direction  of  Margery,  who  has  fallen  senseless. 

"  Father,  spare  me !  If  you  but  knew  how  madly  I 
love  her,  you — " 

"  Tut,  tut ;  let  her  be  your  light-o-love ;  but  never  let 
it  be  said  that  a  Wharton  stooped  to  a  Holmes.  Why, 
man,  an  eagle  never  mates  with  a  crow" — he  answers  in 
a  low  tone. 

Philip  springs  to  his  feet,  and  looks  him  boldly  in  the 
face  as  he  replies,  "My  lord,  Mistress  Holmes  is  as 
proper  a  woman  as  was  ever  begot  in  our  house — and 
more — "  * 

He  is  interrupted  by  Margery,  who  has  recovered  from 
her  swoon.  She  stands  between  them,  with  her  back  to 
her  lover,  and  says  to  Wharton,  with  a  sob  that  shakes 
her  from  head  to  foot,  "  My  lord,  I  give  him  up  forever. 
I  '11  try  to  hate  him  for  his  own  sake. — You  will  be  a 
friend  to  my  father  ?" 

My  lord   stares   in  astonishment,  and  allows  her  to 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  45 

lead  him  to  the  General.  Beginning  to  see  how  matters 
stand,  and  convinced,  in  spite  of  himself,  that  the  girl  is 
in  earnest,  he  extends  his  hand  to  the  General,  and  says 
persuasively,  "  General,  allow  me  to  apologize  for  the 
hasty  expressions  I  made  use  of  in  our  conversation.  It 
is  folly  for  us  to  quarrel  like  raw  school-boys." 

Holmes'  face  brightens  as  he  grasps  the  hand  of  the 
wily  diplomat,  and  he  energetically  protests  that  it  was 
all  his  fault  in  being  so  hasty. 

As  soon  as  Margery  sees  they  are  friends  again,  she 
endeavors  to  dart  down  the  path  leading  to  Holme 
Grange,  but  Philip  intercepts  her,  and  clasps  her  securely 
around  the  waist,  demanding,  in  excited  accents,  to 
know  the  meaning  of  the  previous  scene. 

"  Unhand  me,  Philip,  for  Heaven's  sake  I"  Her  fur 
ther  utterance  is  checked  by  a  torrent  of  tears,  which 
threaten  to  end  in  hysterics. 

Philip  is  amazed  at  her  language,  and  silently  mourns 
over  the  fickleness  of  woman ;  but  soon  all  his  sympathy 
is  aroused  by  the  evident  pain  she  is  in.  Leading  her 
to  a  broken  rustic  seat,  made  of  a  huge  tree  which  had 
been  cut  down  and  sawed  into  many  portions,  he  sits 
down  beside  her,  while  his  eyes  show  his  perplexity  and 
vexation. 

"  Philip,  my  own,  I  cannot  give  you  up." 

"  Give  me  up  ?  What  mean  you,  Margery  ?"  he  replies 
in  wondering  tones. 

Her  conversation  with  his  father  had  been  carried  on 
in  so  low  a  tone  that  he  had  not  heard  her  words. 

"  It  means,  dearest,  that  you  can  do  with  me  whatever 
you  will,  forever  and  ever!"  Her  soft  white  arms  wind 
about  his  neck,  and  her  lips  meet  his  with  a  passionate 
kiss. 

"  Only  a  love  quarrel  after  all,  Margery,  eh  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied  in  serious  tones,  "  it  was  no  quarrel 


46  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

at  all.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it I  was  at  Rooksnest 

before  the  tiine,  and  was  waiting  for  you  at  the  very  spot 
where  you  saw  me,  when  I  met  father,  who  asked  me — 
oh,  so  crossly — where  I  was  going,  and  what. I  did  alone 
in  the  forest,  for  he  had  forbidden  me  to  leave  the  house 
without  an  attendant,  as  you  know.  I  could  not  answer 
him,  I  was  so  afraid.  But  Lord  Wharton,  who  happened 
to  be  in  the  same  part  of  the  grounds,  and  must  have 
heard  him,  said, '  Sir,  if  she  is  unable  to  tell  you,  I  can 
doubtless  do  so ;'  and  to  my  terror  and  surprise  he  read, 
in  icy,  cruel  tones,  that  quite  froze  my  blood,  every  word 
of  the  letter  I  had  written  you  1" 

Philip  starts,  and  feels  for  her  letter ;  it  is  safe  in  his 
pocket.  "  Maldran  has  betrayed  us ;  a  curse  on  the 
knave!"  he  mutters. 

"  Then  angry  words  passed  between  them ;  and  if  I  had 
not  placed  my  hand  on  father's  sword,  I  am  sure  there 
would  have  been  bloodshed — and  between  them  !"  She 
shudders,  and  clings  closer  to  Philip. 

"  Margery,  sweetheart,  I  will  find  Maldran,  and  if  he 
has  done  us  this  foul  turn,  I'll  stab  him  in  his  camp,  the 
black-hearted  villain !" 

"  Please  don't,  Philip ;  those  gypsies  might  do  you 
some  harm." 

He  laughs  scornfully  at  her  fears,  and  is  about  to 
scout  such  an  idea ;  but  she  turns  her  head,  and  says 
quickly : — 

"  Hush !  Yes,  it  is  my  father.  Quick,  Philip,  hide 
yourself  until  he  passes.  If  he  sees  you,  it  might  anger 
him  again.  Quick  1  he  is  coming  this  way.  Hide  your 
self,  and  I  will  be  in  my  room  before  he  overtakes  me." 

He  draws  her  to  him,  and — well,  she  looks  happier  after 
the  embrace. 

Like  the  zephyr  now  she  flies,  swift  and  noiseless  to 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  47 

hide  herself  in  her  own  little  room,  and  think  over  the 
day's  doings. 

Philip  has  scarcely  concealed  himself  when  the  General 
strides  by  with  a  firm,  commanding  step,  the  plumes  on 
his  hat,  and  his  long  hair  dancing  and  tossing  in  the 
breeze  which  sighs  gently  through  the  tangled  branches 
overhead,  and  swirls  the  dead  leaves  round  and  round 
in  swift  circles  of  brown  and  yellow,  scarlet  and  green. 

During  the  time  that  his  lordship  and  the  General 
had  been  left  together,  the  former  had  employed  his  time 
in  flattering  and  endeavoring  to  sound  the  latter,  to  see 
whether  he  was  in  possession  of  any  secrets  of  the  liar- 
ley  administration ;  but  the  General  either  knew  nothing 
or  else  was  too  old  a  soldier  to  be  caught  even  with  the 
well-baited  hooks  which  his  lordship  sent  out  for  him  to 
seize.  So  drawing  his  gray  velvet  cloak  about  his 
shoulders,  Lord  Wharton  called  to  Philip  to  follow  him. 
He  was  surprised  to  find  that  his  son  had  disappeared. 
He  scowled,  and  said,  "  I  was  a  dolt  to  trust  the  pretty 
wench,  for  all  her  pleading. eyes  and  innocent  ways.  Why 
I  should  have  done  so  surprises  me.  To  trust  a  girl's  word, 
after  my  experience  of  them !"  And  he  smiled  scorn 
fully.  "A  good  impulse  probably.  Mighty  few  have 
found  their  way  to  me  lately,  and  I  shall  take  care  it  is 
the  last.  Curse  me!  She  give  up  Philip?  Possible. 
Philip  give  her  up  ?  Never  !  He  is  too  much  like  my 
self  in  such  things."  And  the  courtly  sinner  chuckled 
knowingly.  "  If  he  had  more  sense,  and  a  trifle  less  of 
what  he  calls  '  honor,'  she  might  have  been  his  own  long 
ago,  sans  Hymen.  S'blocd!  if  I  was  not  his  respected 
father,  I  would  certainly  advise  him  on  that  point  my 
self."  A  malicious  smile  curls  his  lips  as  he  says: 
"  Shem  will  do  ;  I'll  to  him."  And  he  proceeded  in  the 
direction  of  the  keeper's  lodge. 


48  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY} 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  fork- — God  for  his  mercy  !     What  treachery  is  here  ?" 

KING  RICHARD  II. 

"  Ursula. — The  pleasantest  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 

Cut  with  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait ; 

So  angle  we  for  Beatrice  ;" 

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  III.  i. 

SHEM  had  scarcely  finished  his  luncheon  and  begun  to 
talk  with  his  son  on  the  glorious  run  they  had,  of  the 
feints  and  doublings  of  the  old  buck,  of  the  high  wall  on 
the  moor  which  they  had  taken  flying,  and  to  approve 
the  gallant  manner  in  which  Brad  had  sheathed  his  knife 
clean  to  the  haft  as  the  desperate  beast  stood  at  bay  with 
horns  lowered,  feet  pawing,  and  back  bristling,  ere  a 
quick,  sharp  rap  sounds  at  the  door,  and  footsteps  grate 
on  the  ground  in  front  of  the  lodge. 

"  Don't  be  asleep,  lad !  open  the  door !"  Shem  cries  ; 
but,  before  Brad  can  get  there,  the  latch  is  lifted  and 
Lord  Wharton  enters  and  nods  pleasantly  to  Shem ;  he 
tells  him  that  he  would  like  a  short  conversation  with 
him  at  once ;  turning  to  Brad,  he  says  shortly,  "  My 
lad,  you  may  amuse  yourself  in  the  chase  for  a  half 
hour ;"  and  he  points  to  the  door. 

Brad,  only  too  willing  to  leave  so  high  and  mighty  a 
presence  as  soon  as  possible,  walks  shamefacedly  to  the 
door. 

Shem  scratches  his  curly  head,  and  wonders  what  his 
lordship  wants  to  see  him  for, "  rebeck  him !  may  be  to 
arrange  a  good  hunt,  or  to  chide  him  for  some  fault." 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  49 

His  lordship  takes  the  old  arm-chair,  close  by  the  lat 
tice  window,  through  which  a  wide  sweep  of  beautiful 
and  romantic  landscape  can  be  seen,  and  tells  Shem  to 
seat  himself  also.  He  knows  the  sturdy  upright  nature 
of  his  gamekeeper,  and  knows  that,  in  order  to  have  his 
cordial  co-operation  in  the  vile  job  he  is  about  to  broach 
to  him,  he  will  have  to  glaze  it  over  with  sophistry  and 
dazzle  his  understanding  by  varnishing  it  with  words 
beyond  his  comprehension.  He  begins  in  a  careless, 
matter-of-course  manner.  "  Shem,  it  lies  in  your  power 
to  do  me  a  service,  which  I  know  you  will  do,  not  only 
to  please  me,  but  to  have  a  hand  in  so  good  a  joke  your 
self." 

Wharton  looks  at  him  as  if  he  expects  him  to  say 
something ;  Shem,  however,  bewildered  by  his  master's 
condescension,  answers  not  a  word,  but  appears  grave 
and  embarrassed,  and  shifts  his  legs  and  arms  about  un 
easily,  looking  the  very  embodiment  of  awkwardness. 
He  did  not  dare  to  refuse  my  lord's  command  to  seat 
himself,  although  at  the  same  time  he  thought  it  a  sad 
breach  of  good  manners  to  do  so. 

Wharton  continues :  "  This  is  what  I  mean.  You  are 
aware  that  Master  Philip  has  a  liking  for  pretty  Mistress 
Holmes,  and  he  thinks  that  I  know  vastly  less  about  it 
than  I  do ;  so,  in  order  to  enjoy  a  mighty  good  joke  at 
his  expense — ah  1  ha ! — I  want  you,  when  next  you  see 
him,  to  mention  her  name,  and  cautiously  insinuate  that 
you  think  him  fondly  foolish  for  not  running  away  with 
her  to  London,  where  she  can  be  all  his  own  !" 

Here  Shem  is  about  to  ejaculate  eomething,  but  he  re 
strains  himself,  and  reddens  to  the  roots  of  his  beard. 

"  I  will  pretend  to  know  nothing  about  it  until  the 

last  moment ;  then,  to  prevent  any  scandal  attaching  to 

her — "     He  narrowly  watches  Shem's  face,  and  smiles 

inwardly  as  he  notes  his  relieved  look,  and  surmises  that 

5 


50  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

the  first  part  of  his  plan  alarmed  him  for  Margery's  sake, 
whom  he  loves  next  to  Brad  and  his  falcons.  "  I  say,  to 
prevent  any  scandal  attaching  to  her,  I  will  stop  the 
proceeding,  and  none  will  be  the  wiser  but  ourselves.  If 
you  would  not  like  Master  Philip  to  know  that  you 
have  a  hand  in  the  affair,  of  course  I  will  never  tell  him. 
I  will  not  insult  you  by  offering  you  a  reward,  for  I 
know  there  is  not  a  Throck  living  who  would  not  feel 
happy  to  fulfil  my  wishes  ;  but  if  you  should  like  '  Queen 
Anne,'  who  is,  as  you  know,  by  '  Careless'  out  of '  Light 
ning,'  you  are  welcome  to  her,  and  she  is  as  fine  a  colt  as 
there  is  in  all  Buck's." 

Shem  can  scarcely  sit  still,  so  elated  is  he  at  his  mas 
ter's  present,  for  it  is  one  of  the  best  horses  in  the  stable, 
and  one  for  which  he  has  sighed  time  and  again. 

"My  lord,  I  thank  ye  kindly.  Ye  could  ha'  given 
me  nowt  I  wad  prize  so  highly  as  '  Queen  Anne.'  As 
for  the  favor,  it  was  your  lordship's  mind  to  jest  wi'  me 
a  bit,  for  well  ye  knaw  whether  or  no  I  wad'  or  wad'  not 
do  such  an  a  thing,  if  only  out  on'  love  for  a  bit  o'  jol 
lity."  He  reddens  again  as  he  proceeds  :  "  Excuse  me, 
your  lordship,  but  ye  are  sure  that  no  harm  can  come 
out  on  it  to  either  o'  the  young  folks  ?" 

"  No,  no,  Shem ;  you  are  getting  nervous,  timid." 

My  lord  rises,  walks  to  the  door,  and  bids  him  "  good 
bye"  in  a  suave,  conciliating  manner,  his  scabbard  point 
scattering  the  white  sand  which  the  care  of  the  gudewife 
had  swept  into  squares  on  the  red  tiled  floor. 

"  Nervous !  that 's  what  the  gentle  folks,  more  so,  the 
women  part  be.  It 's  French,  I  knaw,  and  modish, 
so  I  'm  no'  nervous ;  but  I  wad  sair  blame  mysen  if  aught 
I  did  suld  bring  sorrow  to  wee,  gowden-haired  Margery, 
for  she  is  mair  an  angel  than  a  child  o'  earth.  It  was 
once  before  that  my  lord  wanted  to  knaw  whether  mas 
ter  Philip  was  wi'  her  down  by  Rooksnest! — Queen 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  51 

Anne  I  rebeck  me  !     My  heart  jumps  wi'  joy.     Sure  my 
lord  must  mean  well  ?     Of  coorse,  of  coorse." 

If  Shem  had  had  his  eyes  at  the  door,  he  might  have 
seen  Brad  standing  there  in  a  listening  attitude,  but  his 
ideas  were  so  taken  up  with  the  colt  that  he  had  thoughts 
for  nothing  but  its  glossy  coat,  its  great  speed,  and  its 
docility. 


52  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"King. — We'll  put  the  matter  to  the  present  hush, 

Good  Gertrude ;  set  some  watch  over  your  son." 
HAMLET  THE  DANE. 

THE  day  is  drawing  to  its  close.  The  sun  is  falling 
through  a  sea  of  fire,  glowing  in  wondrous  hues  and  mazy 
colors  unspeakably  lovely  and  sublime.  Vast  masses  of 
white  clouds  float  and  billow  in  detached  fragments — 
snow-banks  in  the  blue  ether — through  which  long  qui 
vering  rays  dart  fiery  streaks  that  are  mellowed  to  a 
pearly-pink  in  their  struggle  to  pierce  them  through. 

The  spot  we  are  on  commands  an  extensive  view  of 
the  wildest  and  most  glorious  part  of  the  country.  Here 
we  can  revel  in  all  the  varieties  of  an  English  landscape, 
and  feast  on  such  views  as  Claude  or  Hobbema  would 
have  thoroughly  enjoyed.  The  moors  and  the  fells ;  the 
valleys  and  the  hills  ;  the  bounding  mountain  torrent, 
tumbling  and  rumbling  over  its  rocky  bed ;  and  the  more 
placid  stream  winding  through  forest  and  meadow — all 
have  a  beauty  that  can  only  be  appreciated  by  the  keen 
observer  and  the  lover  of  the  beautiful  in  nature. 

Far  off,  beyond  the  reach  of  bow-shot,  can  be  traced 
the  graceful  outlines  of  a  noble  buck,  his  antlercd  head 
tossed  proudly  back ;  the  hawk's  shrill  cry  grates  above, 
as  it  circles  with  quickening  rapidity  over  the  nest 
of  its  frightened  prey,  and  from  the  meadows  beyond 
comes  a  faint,  nutty  smell  as  of  dying  flowers  and  ripen 
ing  fruit. 


OE,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  53 

As  the  vivid  tints  of  the  expiring  day  grow  dimmer, 
lurid  lights  as  of  bonfires  flicker  and  gleam  in  the  depths 
of  the  woodland.  There  let  us  go,  being  careful  to  avoid 
the  deep,  silent  tarns  whose  waters  are  icy  cold  and 
clear,  and  the  deep  gulches  whose  treacherous  sides  are 
covered  with  luxuriant  foliage  and  thick  vines  with 
many-hued  berries. 

We  reach  an  open  space  where  a  curious  scene  presents 
itself,  whose  rich  tones,  deep  shadows,  and  picturesque 
accompaniments  would  require  a  Poussin's  color  to 
depict.  The  great,  majestic  trees  raise  their  heads  to  the 
sky,  and  throw  glancingly  off  the  silvery  be.ams  of  the 
rising  moon  which  essay  to  break  through  their  inter 
weaving  branches.  In  the  centre  of  two  or  three  dingy, 
tattered  tents,  and  as  many  rickety  hovels,  stands  the 
gypsy  queen's  abode,  rather  larger,  and  outwardly  cleaner 
than  its  companions.  On  the  summit  waves  a  small 
yellow  flag  adorned  with  Oriental  characters  and  symbols ; 
it  is  weather-stained  and  ragged,  looking  a  fit  standard 
for  the  motley  group  who  flourish  under  its  shadow,  and 
at  present  sprawl  in  ungainly  attitude  around  the  fire. 
At  the  largest  of  these  the  evening  meal  is  cooking  in  a 
large  iron  kettle,  which  hangs  between  two  green  boughs, 
simmering  and  bubbling  noisily,  while  its  aromatic  smell 
of  herbs,  meats,  and  condiments  diffuses  itself  about. 

At  the  smaller  fires  are  stalwart  men,  big-limbed  and 
ruffianly ;  women  with  long,  black  hair  falling  in  tangled 
masses  on  their  bare  shoulders  ;  and  half-naked  babes 
and  children,  who  warm  their  feet  in  the  welcome  heat, 
and  crow  jubilantly  at  the  rising  sparks. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  camp  is  a  tall,  muscular  vaga 
bond,  who  stands  stolidly  at  his  post,  surveying  the 
hotch-potch  kettle  with  listless  eyes.  It  is  Nanar,  the 
most  cunning  tinkler — the  best  wrestler  in  the  count}', 
and  his  queen's  favorite  besides.  See !  he  raises  his  head 

5* 


54  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

and  cranes  his  neck  as  if  to  catch  a  far-off  sound.  Sud 
denly  throwing  himself  full  length  on  the  ground,  he 
places  his  ear  to  it.  Listening  attentively  for  a  few 
minutes,  he  springs  lightly  to  his  feet,  and  cries  in  a 
low,  but  penetrating  whisper,  "Wha's  there?"  Almost 
immediately  he  receives  the  answer,  "  You  have  a  quick 
ear,  Nanar."  The  voice  appears  to  reassure  him,  for  he 
assumes  his  former  position  with  scarcely  a  look  at  the 
intruder,  merely  pulling  his  forelock  as  a  sign  of  respect 
to  a  superior. 

The  flames  of  the  fires  show  us  Lord  Wharton ! — an 
odd,  unlikely  place  for  him  to  visit  at  this  time  of  the 
evening.  Stamping  the  thick  dew  off  his  shoes,  he 
brushes  the  wet  leaves  and  twigs  from  his  cloak, 
draws  it  tightly  around  his  shoulders  again,  and  steps 
quickly  to  the  queen's  tent,  where  a  password  admits  him 
at  once.  The  little  room  is  feebly  lighted  by  a  short, 
clumsy  candle  which  sputters  and  gutters  complainingly 
in  its  rude  holder — two  nails  hammered  slantwise  into  the 
table,  and  pushed  tightly  against  the  soft  tallow. 

The  queen  is  a  tall,  handsome  woman.  Her  face  is 
peculiar  and  strongly  marked ;  her  eyes  are  blue-black ; 
her  brows  are  well  curved,  but  thick  and  heavy ;  eye 
lashes  very  long ;  her  skin  is  as  dark  as  the  darkest  of 
her  tribe ;  and  her  lips  are  full,  and  rather  sensual. 
Greeting  her  visitor  with  a  respectful  smile,  she  points 
to  a  stool  close  beside  her,  on  which  she  requests  him 
to  be  seated.  She  reclines  on  a  pile  of  soft  deer-skins, 
looking  careless  and  languid ;  indeed,  her  attitude  show 
ing  a  spirit  of  coquetry  and  wantonness,  exhibits  scarce 
enough  dignity  for  the  ruler  of  such  a  turbulent,  unruly 
set  as  are  outside.  But,  under  this  apparent  "easiful- 
ness,"  she  has  an  iron  will  that  can  awe  the  roughest,  the 
most  mutinous  of  her  followers,  if  it  is  necessary  for  the 
sake  of  law  and  order,  and  she  can  scourge  them  with 


OE,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  55 

words  as  keen  as  their  own  knives,  and  be  as  imperious 
as  ever  was  Cleopatra  or  good  Queen  Bess. 

Wharton  lays  his  hat  and  cloak  on  the  table,  and  re 
plies,  in  answer  to  her  inquiries  anent  his  health.  "  How 
is  it  with  thee,  my  bonnie  queen  ?"  "  As  well  as  ever, 
my  lord,  thanks  to  the  good  man."  He  adds — "  And 
just  as  bewitching."  Laughing  at  his  compliment,  she 
says:  "My  Lord,  ye  will  drink  wi'  me  ere  I  ask  you 
anent  the  business  that  brings  you  here — though  wel 
come  ye  be,  whether  ye  come  on  business  or  pleasure." 
"  Sooth,"  he  answers,  "  the  pleasure  is  for  myself  alone  j 
the  business  for  myself  and  others."  A  meaning  smile 
crosses  his  face  as  he  says  this.  She  notices  the  expres 
sion  on  his  lips ;  but  her  eyes  give  no  indication  that  she 
is  attending  to  anything  but  the  filling  of  a  pewter  pot 
with  an  aromatic  wine,  yellow  as  amber,  and  as  clear  as 
crystal.  This  operation  finished,  she  hands  him  the  pot 
with  a  hand  which,  though  brown  and  dusky,  is  as  per 
fect  in  contour  as  ever  painter  dreamed  of  or  poet  im 
agined.  On  its  index  finger  sparkles  the  signet  ring 
used  by  the  tribe  as  a  means  of  message  carrying  which 
insures  the  identity  of  the  wearer. 

"  Queenie,"  says  Wharton,  as  he  raises  the  wine  to  his 
lips,  "  to  yourself,  a  true  descendant  of  Jockie  Faa  and 
the  dark-eyed  beauties  of  the  East."  Tossing  it  off,  he 
returns  her  the  empty  pot.  Replacing  it  and  the  liquor 
bottle  in  the  closet  behind  her  couch,  she  turns  to  him, 
and  says  gravely :  "  Now,  my  lord,  what  can  the  gypsy 
queen  do  for  ye  or  yours?  Speak,  and  let  the  moon 
be  my  witness,  I  will  do  it  willingly,  be  your  wishes  good 
or  bad,  true  or  fause  1" 

Crossing  her  hands  on  her  bosom  she  awaits  his 
reply. 

"  Well,  to  begin  with,  I  wish  to  leave  this  purse  with 
you,  half  of  its  contents  for  yourself,  and  half  for  Mai- 


56  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

dran."  So  saying,  he  tosses  a  well-filled  purse  on  her 
lap.  She  does  not  even  glance  at  it,  but  remains  as 
motionless  as  a  statue,  keeping  her  eyes  steadilj-  on 
his  face.  He  resumes  :  "  And  I  would  see  Maldran  ere 
I  go,  to  give  him  further  instructions  how  to  act  during 
my  stay  in  London."  She  lifts  a  small  silver  whistle 
from  her  neck,  and  blows  a  piercing  call  on  it.  The 
summons  is  answered  like  magic ;  the  door  opens,  and 
the  gypsy  enters,  greasy  with  his  unfinished  supper; 
saluting  his  queen,  he  looks  towards  Wharton  with  an 
inquiring  look. 

Says  the  queen  in  the  Rommany  dialect :  "  Maldran, 
my  praw,  his  lordship  wishes  to  patter  wi'  ye  anent  his 
going  awa' ;  chee,  chee,  and  you  will  know."  "  Baurie 
Raunie,  I  listen,"  he  replies  sullenly.  But  the  money 
she  hands  him  creates  a  palpable  difference  in  his  feel 
ings,  as  his  brightening  countenance  evinces. 

Wharton,  who  seems  desirous  of  leaving,  says  hurriedly, 
"Maldran,  I  am  going  to  London,  and  I  want  you  to 
watch  Master  Philip  and  Mistress  Holmes  while  I  am 
away.  Take  note  of  all  their  actions,  so  that  I  may 
know  how  they  behave  when  I  am  not  near.  If  anything 
important  happens,  send  a  messenger  with  the  news  at 
once  to  Christopher  Catt's,  Fountain  Tavern,  in  the 
Strand."  Drawing  a  seal-ring  from  his  finger,  he  pro 
ceeds  :  "  This  will  be  his  token." 

Maldran  nods  his  approval,  takes  the  ring,  and  secretes 
it  in  a  pocket  of  his  dirty  leather  breeches,  which  he  has 
worn  until  they  are  as  black  and  as  shiny  as  satin,  and 
takes  his  departure. 

"Wharton  is  about  to  follow  him,  but  the  queen  ex 
claims  quickly,  "  Wait,  my  lord !  I  have  a  word  to  say 
to  you  ere  you  go!"  He  drums  impatiently  on  the 
table,  and  looks  surprised  at  her  request.  "  'Tis  a  story 
I  can  tell  in  a  few  minutes,  for  all  a  life's  wrong  is  con- 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREEIU  57 

taincd  in  it :  I  was  a  little  girl  once,  and  I  committed  a 
great  sin  against  our  laws — I  need  not  tell  you  what  it 
was.  I  was  sentenced  to  banishment  frae  our  tribe ;  but 
a  sweet  lady  interceded  for  me  wi'  her  tongue  and  her 
gowd,  and — " 

"  What  is  all  this  to  me  ?  I  have  no  time  to  waste  on 
childish  fooleries,"  he  cries  angrily,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  latch. 

Springing  from  her  couch  like  a  fawn,  she  places  her 
back  against  the  door,  and  replies:  "More  than  you 
think,  my  lord.  Hear  me  out!  I  say  she  interceded 
for  me,  and  procured  my  pardon.  From  that  moment  I 
became  her  debtor  for  life.  Now  listen !  Her  name  was 
Nelly  Valentin !  You  ruined  her.  She  is  now  in  Lon 
don,  a  starving,  shame-stricken  outcast.  You  must  send 
her  enough  money  to  keep  her  from  want  until  she  dies, 
or — I  am  your  enemy  for  life." 

Her  eyes  are  glittering  and  angry  now,  while  her  teeth 
show  white  through  her  half  open  lips.  "Wharton  red 
dening  with  anger  at  her  audacity,  and,  unable  to  control 
himself,  strikes  her  on  the  face  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  cutting  a  little  gash  in  her  cheek  with  his  diamond 
ring.  She  involuntarily  puts  her  hand  on  the  cut,  but 
takes  it  away  instantly,  opens  the  door,  and  says  calmly, 
"  Go,  my  lord  ;  you  and  the  gypsy  queen  are  enemies." 
He  laughs  scornfully,  and  steps  out,  past  the  fires, 
through  the  swarthy  groups,  and  into  the  darkness  of 
the  forest. 

"'A  God's  blood,"  he  mutters,  "what  a  tigress  I  It  is 
strange  how  she  could  have  discovered  my  frolic  with 
Nelly !  But  I  must  hie  me  home,  or  her  ladyship  will 
wonder  at  my  absence  on  the  eve  of  my  departure."  *  * 

It  is  now  time  to  explain  how  it  was  that  Lord  Whar 
ton,  General  Holmes  and  poor  Margery  should  have 


58  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

both  happened  to  be  in  an  unfrequented  part  of  the 
grounds  at  the  same  time.  It  was  in  this  %  manner:  as 
soon  as  Margery  had  given  Maldran  the  message  to  Philip 
he  took  it  to  Wharton,  by  whom  he  was  employed  as  a 
spy  on  the  lovers.  Wharton  read  it,  copied  the  contents, 
and  then  instructed  the  faithless  rascal  to  take  it  to  its 
proper  destination.  He  then  sat  down  and  wrote  in  a 
feigned  hand  to  General  Holmes,  telling  him  that  his 
daughter  was  to  meet  Philip  in  the  woods  at  noon;  he 
signed  the  letter  "  A  Friend."  He  waited  until  nearly 
the  time  she  had  appointed  for  the  rendezvous,  and  sent 
the  letter  to  him  by  a  disguised  servant.  He  then  took 
his  way  to  Rooksnest  and  awaited  with  malignant  plea 
sure  the  fiasco  which  he  knew  must  ensue,  and  which  he 
hoped  would  at  one  blow  break  up  the  relations  between 
the  lovers.  How  it  turned  out  we  know. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  59 


CHAPTER  Yin. 

"  There  's  some  exception,  man  an'  woman  ; 
But  this  is  gentry's  life  in  common." 

THE  TWA  Doss. 

"  My  heart  is  sair,  I  dare  na  tell, 
My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody; 
I  could  wake  a  winter  night 
For  the  sake  of  somebody." 

"Mr  HEART  IS  SAIR,  I  DARB  NA  TELt." 

HOLME  GRANGE  fronts  on  a  clear,  swift  stream,  which 
is  lined  on  the  other  side  with  drooping  water  grasses  and 
showy  river-weed — Philip's  Stream,  Margery  calls  it,  as 
with  heart  and  eyes  engrossed  by  the  one  object  she  sees 
her  ideal  in  all  things  around  or  about  her.  The  house 
is  surrounded  by  a  large  garden  laid  out  in  the  Eliza 
bethan  style,  with  sprucely  cut  hedges  and  intricate 
pathways  whose  sides  are  clustered  with  all  the  flowers 
that  are  in  season.  The  "  drive"  from  the  gate  to  the 
stables  is  adorned  with  marble  fountains,  whose  Ruben- 
esque  nymphs  and  Cupids  pour  streams  of  water  on  the 
gold  and  silver  fish  disporting  themselves  in  the  basin. 

The  old  hall  was  built  in  the  Tudor  days,  and  the  effect 
produced  on  the  educated  mind  while  surveying  it  is  a 
feeling  of  true  admiration  and  delight.  The  roof  is  of  a 
high  pitch,  and  it  is  chastely  beautified  with  delicate 
tracery.  Arched  beams  protect  a  row  of  small  stone 
figures,  which  stand  over  the  main  entrance  and  seem  the 

O  / 

guardian  angels  of  the  house  and  its  pertainings.  The 
square  mouldings  over  all  the  windows  and  doorways 
have  the  family  quarterings  cut  on  them — an  arm  erect, 


60  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

and  clutching  in  its  hand  a  dagger,  on  a  field  gules,  and 
surrounded  by  the  legend  "  Soyez  Tranquylle"  in  old  Nor 
man  letters.  The  long  Gothic  windows  are  minutely 
panelled,  and  reflect  in  parti-colors  the  cloud-flecked  sky 
and  the  waving,  rustling  trees. 

The  General's  stalwart  figure  can  be  seen,  and  the 
jingle  of  his  spurs  heard,  as  he  walks  by  the  side  of  his 
daughter,  talking  to  her  in  a  tone  of  parental  reproof, 
to  which  she  listens  with  downcast  countenance  and  eyes 
suffused  with  tears  that  momentarily  threaten  to  fall  on 
the  dainty  pink  hood  which  she  twitches  so  pettishly. 
He  speaks  to  her  in  a  kindly  manner :  "  Margery,  hinny, 
I  desire  above  all  things  your  happiness,  and  for  yours 
I  would  willingly  sacrifice  my  own ;  but  in  this  case  I 
am  determined.  His  lordship  does  not  wish  the  match, 
nor  do  I  think  that,  with  all  Philip's  talents  and  his  un 
usual  forwardness,  he  would  make  you  a  true,  faithful 
husband.  I  distrust  your  geniuses !" 

Margery  does  not  answer  him,  but  her  lip  quivers,  and 
her  hands  tightly  clutch  her  trailing  dress.  He  looks  at 
her  with  pitying  sympathy,  and  heartily  regrets  that 
Master  Philip  is  forbidden  by  his  father  to  betroth  him 
self  to  his  bonnie  daughter,  both  for  her  sake  and  his 
own,  for  the  alliance  would  be  honorable  and  politic 
— especially  in  these  times,  when  it  is  now  Tory,  now 
Whig,  who  make  the  laws  and  break  them  at  their  plea 
sure,  and  it  is  well  to  have  a  friend  on  both  sides  if  pos 
sible. 

While  the  father  is  occupied  with  his  thoughts, 
Margery  lifts  her  eyes  to  his  face  to  see  whether  he 
really  is  as  firm  in  the  cruel  resolve  as  his  speech  be 
tokened;  and  now,  as  he  turns  to  her  to  renew  the 
conversation,  he  finds  her  sweet  face  upturned  and  close 
to  his,  with  lips  half  parted,  and  such  a  pleading  ex 
pression  in  her  azure  eyes  that  he  impulsively  ejaculates: 


oa,  PHILIP  DUKE  OP  WHARTON'S  CAREER.          61 

"  Bless  you,  little  one !  If  I  could  help  you  in  this,  God 
knows  I  would,  natheless  his  lordship's  insolence  to  me; 
but  I  am  as  helpless  as  yourself!" 

Margery  clasps  her  hands  excitedly,  and  cries  in  a 
joyful  voice,  "  Then  you  will  let  me  meet  him  at  Rooks- 
nest  sometimes?" — and  stops  abruptly,  with  a  vague 
idea  that  she  has  said  something  bold  and  unmaidenly. 

The  father  looks  perplexed  again,  and  answers  firmly  : 
"  No,  Margery.  If  he  cannot  take  you  for  weal  or  woe, 
he  shall  not  have  you  at  all.  Besides,  darling,  you  are 
too  young  yet.  Save  us !  scarcely  fourteen,  and  wants 
to  marry  ?  What  is  the  world  coming  to,  now-a-days  ? 
It  would  be  very  wrong  in  you  to  see  him  alone  under 
these  circumstances ;  and  all  that  I  can  allow  you  at 
present,  is  to  close  my  eyes  while  forbidden  letters  are 
flying  to  and  fro." 

After  this  unexpected  outburst,  Margery  is  thankful 
for  even  so  small  a  privilege ;  for  is  not  a  letter  from  him 
the  next  best  thing  to  his  own  dear  self? 

The  General,  almost  regretting  his  permission  to  allow 
her  to  correspond  with  Philip,  mutters :  "  Even  that  is 
more  than  the  jade  ought  to  do  under  such  circum 
stances."  Margery,  hearing  him,  her  cheeks  pale  with 
apprehension,  and  anxious  to  avoid  discussion  on  so 
dangerous  a  topic,  kisses  him  good-bye,  and  runs  in  to 
be  suitably  attired  for  the  rustic  wedding  which  is  to 
take  place  to-day  in  the  village — Will  Happun  and  Nanny 
Prevent  being  the  happy  couple  who  are  to  be  united 
in  the  "holy  bands  of  matrimony;"  and  as  they  are 
dependants  of  General  Holmes,  he  and  Margery  have 
graciously  promised  to  superintend  the  ceremony,  and 
also  to  give  the  bride  a  handsome  "  tocher."  She  skims 
along  the  odorous  path,  up  the  high  marble  steps,  across 
the  veranda,  through  the  low  window  opening  on  it, 
and  finally  bursts  almost  breathless  into  her  own  pretty 
6 


62  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

room,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  hair  dishevelled  with 
the  air  and  the  exercise.  "  Nanny !  Nanny !  where  are 
you?"  Margery  calls,  and  at  the  summons  the  future 
bride  enters  to  dress  her  young  mistress  for  the  last 
time.  She  is  a  comely,  rosy-cheeked,  small-waisted  lass, 
whose  well-turned  ankle  and  neat  foot  are  cased  in  clocked 
silk  stockings  and  bright  red  brodequins,  whose  heels  are 
skilfully  shod  with  brass  so  that  they  will  click-clack 
properly  when  she  walks  up  and  down  the  chapel  aisle, 
the  first  as  a  maid,  the  second  as  a  wife. 

"  'Sooth,  Nannie,  you  look  mighty  pretty  to-day,"  says 
Margery  with  a  smile. 

Nannie  turns  as  red  as  her  shoes,  and  replies  with  a 
demure  air,  "Please  ye,  Mistress  Margery,  that's  how  I 
want  to  look,  for  Will's  sake." 

Margery  thinks  how  curious  it  is  that  she  has  always 
that  thought  in  her  own  head  whenever  she  is  going  to 
see  Philip,  and  a  confused  idea  of  the  universality  of  love 
crosses  her  mind. 

"  That  is  right,  Nannie,"  Margery  utters  with  a  grave, 
motherly  air ;  and  the  next  minute  she  laughs  outright 
at  the  wonderfully  solemn  accents  in  which  she  had 
spoken.  She  resumes :  "  Quick !  or  Will  may  have  to 
wait  for  you  at  the  chapel  door,  and  that  is  unlucky,  you 
know." 

At  once  the  girl  sets  deftly  to  work,  and  removes  the 
light  coif  holding  Margery's  hair  in  its  place.  Whilst 
she  is  gently  passing  her  hands  through  the  silky  mass, 
a  tap  is  heard  at  the  door,  and  she  ceases  her  pleasant 
duty  to  inspect  the  intruder.  It  is  one  of  the  brides 
maids — soon  to  be  a  bride  herself,  by  the  way — curty- 
headed,  merry,  frolicsome  Meg  Busbie,  the  possessor  of 
a  dangerous  pair  of  hazel  eyes,  dancing  with  fun  and 
mischief,  and  of  a  trim  little  waist  and  swelling  bosom. 
There  are  a  charming  demureness  and  an  air  of  restrained 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  63 

vivacity  about  her  at  the  present  moment  which  are  foreign 
to  her ;  she  curtsies  low  to  Margery,  and  remains  quiet 
until  my  lady  of  thirteen — say  fourteen — is  ready  to 
speak  to  her,  which  will  be  as  soon  as  she  lets  fall  the 
golden  coil  she  holds  between  her  red  lips. 

Dear  reader,  as  all  weddings  resemble  one  another  in 
important  particulars,  and  as  the  above  differs  in  no 
wise  from  the  general  rules,  with  your  permission  I  will 
allow  your  imagination  to  finish  this  otherwise  abrupt 
chapter,  and  turn  to  Philip  and  his  doings. 


64  HIMSELE   HIS   WORST   ENEMY 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  King. — If  it  should  prove 

That  thou  art  so  inhuman — 'twill  not  prove  so— 
And  yet  I.know  not — thou  didst  hate  her  deadly—" 

.  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

WHEN  Philip  returned  to  the  castle,  after  the  occurrence 
at  Rooksnest,  he  had  felt  greatly  disinclined  to  face  his 
father's  penetrating  eye  or  hear  his  sarcastic  remarks ; 
but  when  they  sat  down  at  table,  my  lord  never  even 
mentioned  the  subject — ignored  it  entirely.  He  was  too 
politic  and  far-seeing  to  hazard  any  more  "  scenes"  until 
he  saw  how  the  project  which  was  now  in  hand  turned 
out.  If  it  failed,  then  he  had  determined  he  would  send 
Philip  abroad  for  a  year  or  two,  to  complete  his  educa 
tion  under  the  guidance  of  some  Protestant  Whig  who 
could  control  his  actions  and  put  a  check  on  his  turbu 
lent  spirits. 

My  lady  and  Philip  are  at  present  in  the  blue  room, 
so  called  on  account  of  the  color  of  its  tapestry  and 
its  hangings.  She  sits  in  a  high,  straight-backed  chair 
of  ebony,  inlaid,  and  fancifully  worked  in  mosaic  around 
the  sides  and  on  the  arms.  Her  dark  velvet  dress  is 
profusely  trimmed  with  black  lace,  and  her  glossy  hair 
is  dressed  in  the  foot-high  mode  peculiar  to  the  time. 
On  her  right  cheek  are  the  inevitable  two  patches — one 
a  crescent,  the  other  a  star. 

She  looks  admiringly  on  her  beautiful  son,  who  is 
seated  at  her  feet  on  a  low  foot-rest,  studying  over  a 
speech  which  he  has  just  finished  declaiming  before  a 
large  company  of  people  who  are  guests  of  my  lord's, 


OE,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  65 

and  for  which  he  was  loudly  applauded.  He  is  boldly 
giving  his  opinion  of  it,  and  criticizes  it  with  a  rare  judg 
ment  in  one  so  young.  He  sneers  at  the  falsity  of  this 
expression,  the  bad  rhetoric  of  that,  and  condemns  its 
style  in  unmeasured  terms  of  contempt  and  scorn — the 
while  his  mother  wonders  what  he  will  be  in  future  when 
he  is  so  talented  now  ? 

She  says,  in  a  deprecating  manner,  but  withal  a  gleam 
of  maternal  pride  in  her  eyes  :  "  Phil,  dear,  you  must  be 
wrong !  Why,  faith !  it  was  written  and  spoken  by  as 
clever  a  speaker  as  ever  thrilled  the  Commons,  and  it  is 
considered  mighty  fine  by  all  who  have  either  read  it  or 
heard  it  delivered  except  yourself!" 

"  Mother,"  he  answers  with  kindling  eyes,  "  under 
favor,  I  care  not  who  liked  it,  or  who  disliked  it,  I  still 
have  my  own  opinion,  and  I  will  keep  it,  despite  them 
all." 

She  sighs  as  she  thinks  of  the  dangers  his  quick,  vola 
tile  temperament  will  surely  lead  him  into  if  it  is  not 
governed  more  strictly,  and  she  has  a  faint  idea  that  she 
ought  to  reprove  him ;  however,  not  caring  to  irritate  him 
further,  quietly  says :  "  My  son,  it  is  now  time  for  you 
±o  practise  with  Monsieur  Vitesjambe ;  so  I  will  bid  you 
good-day." 

Philip  kisses  her  respectfully,  and  turns  to  leave  the 
room,  when  a  better  impulse  induces  him  to  turn  and 
pick  up  the  speech  which  he  had  thrown  on  the  floor  in 
his  previous  anger.  Placing  it  on  the  table  beside  her, 
he  leaves  the  room  without  a  word,  and  proceeds  to  the 
maitre-de-danse  to  be  perfected  in  the  various  dances  in 
vogue. 

The  courtly  minuet,  the  lively  coranto,  and  the  javotte, 
as  well  as  the  proper  way  to  enter  and  leave  a  room,  the 
bow  and  the  congee,  Philip  practises  under  the  diligent 
attention  of  Monsieur  Vitesjambe,  a  dried-up  dapper 

6* 


66  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Frenchman,  whose  affected  strut  brings  forcibly  to  the 
mind  ludicrous  visions  of  pin-wire  and  strained  catgut. 
In  truth  even  his  ordinary  steps  are  regulated  with  the 
nicety  and  precision  of  one  whose  whole  soul  is  in  his 
art — or  his  heels.  Monsieur  Yitesjambe  was  forced  to 
fly  from  France — that  is,  Paris — on  account  of  his 
pecuniary  affairs,  in  which  he  had  been  swindled  by 
treacherous  friends  ;  and  he  is  never  tired  of  talking  and 
gesticulating  about  La  belle  France  et  le  Grand  Mo- 
narque.  And  his  voice  I  Voltaire,  give  me  a  name  for  it ! 
Our  English  "crackling"  might  do;  but  the  French 
petillant  is  better,  and  expresses  better  what  I  mean. 
Although  openly  professing  Whig  sentiments,  he  is  at 
heart  a  Tory,  as  far  at  least  as  he  is  interested  in  Eng 
lish  politics ;  and  Philip  owes  it  partly  to  him  and  partly 
to  his  own  reckless  spirit  of  opposition,  that  he  is  ad 
verse  to  his  father's  principles,  for  his  vivid  imagination 
and  his  chivalrous  sympathies  were  awakened  by  the 
Frenchman's  tales  of  the  royal  exile,  who  was  thrust 
from  his  throne  by  an  ugly,  phlegmatic  Dutchman,  who 
could  not  speak  the  language  of  the  people  he  governed, 
and  whose  sad-colored  raiment  had  been  the  ridicule  of 
his  court.  Philip  even  carries  his  resentment  to  Anne 
for  her  continued  usurpation  of  her  brother's  throne,  and 
often  says  that  if  he  ever  has  the  power,  he  will  once 
more  restore  their  inheritance  to  the  Stuarts. 

After  an  hour's  practising,  Monsieur  Yitesjambe  de 
clares  the  lesson  to  be  over,  and  Philip  pays  a  visit  to 
Shem  Throck  to  converse  with  him  about  hunting, 
hawking,  and  other  outdoor  sports.  When  he  enters  the 
lodge  Shem  is  busily  engaged  in  feeding  a  pair  of  ger 
falcons  perched  on  the  frame  beside  him,  for  he  is  a 
master-falconer  as  well  as  gamekeeper ;  although  the 
position  is  a  comparative  sinecure,  for  hawking  is  not 
now  so  fashionable  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  Queen  Bess, 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  67 

when,  if  an  imputation  was  cast  on  the  courage  of  one's 
falcon-gentle  or  Barbary,  it  was  as  necessary  to  draw 
Bilboa  and  fight  to  the  death  for  its  honor  as  for  one's 
own. 

Shem  has  just  come  in  from  the  stream,  where  he  has 
been  flying  his  pet  falcon-gentle  at  the  wild  fowl,  and  in  ex 
cited  accents  details  to  the  admiring  Philip  his  courage 
ous  deeds.  "  Kestrils  and  Sacers  I  When  I  cast  her  off 
aloft  she  reet  deftly  plumed  her  bird,  an'  twice  remewed 
it  from  the  river  I  Then  she  took  her  at  the  souse  an' 
struck  her  down  wi'  a  rousin'  prod !  'Fackins  1  Master 
Philip,  it  were  a  goodly  sight !"  He  ceases,  to  look  admir 
ingly  at  the  falcon,  while  with  half-closed  eyes  he  points 
out  its  various  beauties  to  his  attentive  listener.  "  Look 
ye,  Master  Philip,"  he  exclaims ;  "  see  her  wide  nostrils, 
an'  her  big  black  e'en  an'  e'elids  1  What  a  roun'  head  an' 
a  thick  blue  beak  she  has  !  An'  did  ye  ever  afore  see 
such  broad  shoulders  an'  long  wings  ?" 

"Never,"  replies  Philip  heartily. 

Shem  continues:  "An'  the  other  is  a  beauty  too,  I 
warrant  ye !  She  is  as  sma'  as  the  tiniest  o'  them  a'." 

"  She  is,  indeed,"  says  Philip.  "  And  her  red  plumes 
betray  her  species ;  she  is  a  fine  Barbary." 

"  She  is  that,  Master  Philip ;  she  comes  from  a  far-awa 
country,  hundreds  of  miles  away,  they  tell  me." 

"  Yes,  Shem,  from  the  Levant,  where  I  will  go  some 
day  to  see  the  long-bearded  Turk  mumble  over  his  Koran, 
which  he  considers  quite  as  good  as  our  Bible." 

"  God  help  us  1"  cries  Shem,  with  uplifted  hands. 
"  Not  that  I  am  ower  righteous  mysen,  but  it 's  fearful !" 

Smiling  at  his-  horror,  Philip  begins  to  tease  the 
falcons,  which  snap  playfully  at  his  fingers.  While  thus 
engaged,  Shem  casts  a  quick  glance  at  him,  and  says 
carelessly :  "  If  I  be  no  too  free,  Master  Philip,  it  seems 
queer  to  me  that  wi'  a'  your  love  for  Mistress  Margery, 


68  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

you  don't  run  awa'  wi'  her ;  then  ye  see  ye  could  ha'  her 
a'  to  yoursen,  for — " 

Philip's  face  is  ashen  pale  as  he  interrupts  Shem,  and 
says  in  quick,  angry  accents :  "  Stop,  Shem,  I  know 
what  you  are  going  to  say ;  but  that  you  are  too  in 
nocent  to  comprehend  the  black-hearted  villainy  there 
is  in  my  lord's  scheme,  'fore  God!  I  would  sheathe 
my  dagger  in  your  throat  I" 

Shem,  speechless  with  surprise,  stares  like  one  bereft 
of  his  senses,  as  well  he  may.  At  the  first  outburst 
he  instinctively  placed  his  hand  on  the  haft  of  his  hunt 
ing-knife. 

Philip  looks  at  him  closely  for  a  few  seconds,  and  pro 
ceeds  in  a  gentler  manner  than  before :  "  Good,  faithful 
Shem,  let  me  tell  you  the  whole  of  this  vile  project. 
I  '11  lay  bare  my  father's  treacherous  meaning.  You 
think  it  is  a  mere  joke  to  amuse  my  lord — a  harmless 
jest.  His  real  design  is  that  I  shall  run  away  with  Mar 
gery  to  London.  Once  there,  he  thinks  I  will  cer 
tainly  ruin  her,  and  keep  her  as  my  dishonored  mistress. 
But  I  tell  you,  Shem,  that  when  Margery  goes  to  London 
with  Philip  Wharton,  she  goes  as  his  intended  wife." 

Shem  shudders  as  he  hears  the  details,  and  sees  how 
near  he  has  been  towards  compassing  the  destruction  of 
his  "wee  Margery."  "Eh!  my  soul!  if  I  had  done  it!" 
he  exclaims  in  thankful  tones ;  and  he  watches  his  young 
master,  who  paces  the  room  in  a  frenzy  of  rage.  Well 
is  it  that  my  lord  is  not  at  home,  or  there  would  be  such 
commotion  at  the  old  house  as  had  not  been  seen  since 
the  days  of  the  olden  moss-troopers. 

Philip's  blood  boils  as  he  goes  over  in  his  mind  the 
well-planned  details  of  the  cunning  scheme.  Shem  breaks 
the  silence  by  saying,  "  Ye  are  sure,  Master  Philip,  that 
ye  are  no'  wrang  i'  your  thoughts  ?" 

"  Shem,"  he  replies  angrily,  "  I  was  told  of  it  by  an 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE    OF   WKARTON'S   CAREER.  69 

honest,  true-hearted  lad  who  overheard  every  word  of  the 
conference.  I  will  tell  you  his  name,  but  you  must  keep 
it  a  secret ;  it  is  Brad  Throck !" 

"  Bless  the  beggar !"  Shem  exclaims.  "  If  I  had 
known  that  the  young  loon  was  so  close  till  us,  I  'd  ha' 
put  his  ear  out  o'  kelter,  I  warrant  ye.  But  it 's  a'  for 
the  best  I  trow!" 

"  Yes,  Shem,  it  is  all  for  the  best,"  Philip  replies ;  and 
he  looks  abstractedly  out  of  the  window,  while  the  keeper 
plays  with  his  hoods  and  jesses. 

"  Good  e'en  to  ye,  Shem,"  Philip  says  so  abruptly  as 
to  cause  Shem  to  start  from  his  seat,  and  he  walks  out 
and  strides  swiftly  towards  Rooksnest,  with  bitter,  un- 
filial  thoughts  in  his  heart,  and  with  a  firm  determination 
ever  after  to  run  counter  to  his  father's  wishes,  and  to 
thwart  his  purposes  whenever  he  can. 


6* 


70  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY: 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Pierre. — A  council 's  held  hard  by, 

There  I  '11  lead  thee. 

But  be  a  man  !  for  thou  'rt  to  mix  with  men 
Fit  to  disturb  the  peace  of  all  the  world, 

And  rule  it  when  it 's  wildest. " 

VENICE  PRESERVED. 

WE  are  now  in  the  room  sacred  to  Whigs  and  Whig- 
gery,  mutton-pies  and  politics.  The  atmosphere  is  redo 
lent  of  the  fumes  of  wine  and  the  fragrant  Orinoco, 
whose  smoke  fills  the  lungs  and  calls  up  visions  of  Tur 
key  and  the  colonies.  The  walls  are  almost  covered  with 
portraits  of  celebrated  belles  and  toasts,  nearly  all  of 
them  the  work  of  Godfrey  Kneller.  Around  one  side 
runs  a  row  of  walnut  shelves  whereon  are  the  glasses  of 
the  previous  year,  on  which,  according  to  custom,  the 
name  of  the  lady  who  was  the  toast  of  that  year  is  en 
graved.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  is  a  large,  circular 
table  covered  with  wines  and  edibles,  at  which  are  seated 
a  goodly  company  of  noisy,  laughing  cavaliers,  whose 
gay  costumes,  slashed  doublets,  and  scented  cloaks, 
curled  wigs,  and  knightly  orders  make  a  brave  display 
as  they  lounge  about  in  careless,  graceful  attitudes. 

Here  an  irritated  politician  exposes  to  his  attentive 
listener  the  crafty  schemes  of  the  arch  Tory  Harley,  and 
expatiates  at  length  on  Mistress  Masham's  alarming 
ascendency  at  court. 

There  is  a  group  of  dissolute,  reckless  gallants. 
Among  them  the  licentious  Congreve  ;  his  mouth  wide 
open  in  boisterous  merriment,  uncovering  a  set  of  teeth 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  71 

which  many  a  beau  envies  him ;  he  exclaims,  in  a  ring 
ing,  manly  voice  :  "  Egad  !  gentlemen,  I  tell  you  that 
Mistress  Middleton  must  be  our  next  toast,  or  revie  me, 
I  '11 " 

"  Congreve, man!  stop  your  unearthly  clatter,"  cries 
the  proud  Duke  of  Somerset.  "  You  once  said, '  Music 
hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  beast ;'  so  I  prithee, 
quiet,  or  I  '11  give  you  an  air  on  my  viol ;"  and  making 
a  motion  as  though  he  intended  to  play.  Congreve  ex 
claims,  in  assumed  terror :  "  Hold !  My  lord,  I  am 
dumb  ;  for  truly  I  would  rather  keep  my  tongue  between 
my  teeth  for  a  whole  year  than  hear  yon  thing  screeching 
its  direful  lays." 

Opposite  to  Congreve  are  three  keen-eyed,  watchful 
cavaliers,  engaged  in  deep  discussion  ;  they  whisper  in 
low,  guarded  tones,  and  frequently  cast  stealthy  glances 
about  them  as  if  they  are  fearful  of  being  overheard. 
And  well  they  may  be,  for  they  debate  on  no  less  a  ques 
tion  than  the  feasibility  of  totally  overthrowing  and  de 
stroying  the  party  now  governing  England. 

The  group  consists  of  My  Lord  Wharton,  whose  face, 
usually  placid,  is  gloomy  and  anxious;  Charles  Mon 
tague,  Earl  of  Halifax,  who  blows  balls  and  rings  of  pun 
gent  smoke  from  his  Indian  bowl,  with  a  grace  peculiar 
to  .himself — in  fact,  at  "Will's,  and  among  the  men  about 
town,  he  is  considered  a  mighty  fine  smoker ;  lastly, 
and  least  in  point  of  rank,  is  the  architect  and  dra 
matist  Sir  John  Yanbrugh,  whose  indecent  writings  and 
immoral  doings  once  aroused  the  ire  of  the  righteous 
Collier,  who  scourged  him  in  such  a  scathing  style  that 
directly  after  he  wrote  a  moral  epic  comedy  entitled 
"  ^Esop,"  which,  as  might  have  been  expected,  was  hissed 
off  the  boards  of  Drury  Lane ;  he  is  an  eccentric  genius, 
and  has  passed  his, life,  as  he  once  averred,  "in  sinning 

• 


72  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

and  repenting."  The  reader  will  recall  the  couplet 
written  on  him  by  Dr.  Evans  in  allusion  to  his  heavy, 
solid  style  of  architecture : — 

"  Lie  heavy  on  him,  Earth,  for  he 
Laid  many  a  heavy  load  on  thee." 

His  face  is  handsome,  but  haggard  and  pallid,  the  conse 
quence  of  his  riotous,  exciting  life. 

In  answer  to  a  question  put  by  Yanbrugh,  Wharton 
replies  angrily :  "  Yes,  John,  it  was  Sarah  Marlborough's 
waspish  tongue  which  stung  Harley  and  Abbie  in,  and 
ourselves  out." 

The  country  is  at  present  in  a  state  of  great  political 
agitation.  \  Rancorous  violence  and  malignant  speeches 
are  the  order  of  the  day.  In  no  previous  times  did 
pamphlets  and  "  broadsides"  exercise  such  an  influence 
as  they  do  now.  Formerly  a  man's  sayings  were  con 
fined  to  the  few  who  heard  him,  and  their  influence  went 
but  a  little  way  beyond  his  own  immediate  circle ;  but 
now,  where  Earl  Somers,  or  Cowper,  or  Wharton,  or  any 
other  able  speaker  enunciates  a  telling  speech,  it  goes 
from  London  to  Liverpool,  and  to  all  the  country  around, 
in  the  form  of  a  pamphlet,  which  is  widely  distributed 
by  zealous  partisans  and  would-be  officials,  who  know  the 
effect  that  might  be  produced  by  a  single  good  speech  if 
read  and  appreciated. 

Far  back  in  1TOT,  Sarah,  Duchess  of  Marlborough, 
had — unlucky  woman — brought  to  court  a  poor  relative, 
Mistress  Abigail  Hill,  and  procured  for  her  the  post  of 
bedchamber-woman  to  the  queen,  who  was  so  greatly 
pleased  by  her  good  nature  and  unassuming  love,  that 
she  began  to  contrast  the  poor  relative's  engaging  dispo 
sition  with  the  vixenish,  arrogant  temper  of  her  patroness 
— a  temper  the  queen  knew  and  greatly  feared.  In  con 
sequence,  the  influence  of  Sarah  declined  considerably, 
and  despite  her  strenuous  exertions  to  retain  her  old 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON's   CAREER.  73 

ascendency  over  "  Mistress  Morley,"  as  her  majesty  per 
mitted  herself  to  be  called  by  her,  "  Mistress  Freeman" 
slid  slowly  but  surely  down  the  royal  scale.  Once  rid 
of  her,  the  queen  determined  never  to  give  her  a  chance 
to  resume  her  old  despotism  ;  so,  from  that  time,  Mistress 
Abbie  Hill,  or,  as  she  soon  afterwards  became,  Mistress 
Masham,  gradually  gained  more  and  more  power  over 
her  royal  mistress,  until  she  now  stands  the  acknowledged 
favorite.  Haiiey,  who  is  her  kinsman,  influenced  her 
mind  very  much,  and  consequently  the  Whigs  were 
ousted  from  power,  and  himself  and  his  party  installed 
in  their  place. 

But  enough  of  these  dry  details.  We  will  return  to 
the  worthy  members  of  the  kit-cat  whom  we  left  so  un 
ceremoniously. 

Montague,  who  listened  attentively  to  Wharton's  re 
mark,  replies,  "  My  lord,  I  agree  with  you.  Pity  'tis ; 
but  Mistress  Abbie  governs  her  majesty,  and  Harley 
governs  Mistress  Abbie — a  bad  state  of  affairs  for  us, 
eh  ?  Curse  me  I" 

"  The  Laard  presarve  us  from  the  wicked  Moabitess !" 
whines  Montague,  clasping  his  hands  on  his  breast,  and 
turning  up  the  whites  of  his  eyes. 

At  this,  Yanbrugh  laughs  aloud ;  but  Wharton  ex 
claims  impatiently :  "  'S  'blood,  my  Earl  of  Halifax,  be 
serious  !  We  discuss  affairs  of  moment,  and  can  spare 
little  time  for  jack-pudding  pranks !" 

Montague's  face  sobers  instantly,  for  he  respects  and 
indeed  almost  fears  his  crafty,  unscrupulous  friend. 

Wharton  mutters:  "If  we  could  but  reinstate  Sarah! 
But  'tis  impossible ;  the  shrew  has  ruined  us  for  a  time, 
at  least,  with  her  haughty  airs  and  her  arrogant  capri- 
ciousness." 

Vanbrugh  interpolates  meaningly,  "  Bribery !" 
7 


74  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

"  Ay,"  adds  Montague ;  "  a  few  golden  plaisters  would 
better  us,  I  warrant." 

Wharton  elevates  his  eyebrows  contemptuously  as  he 
replies,  "  Begin  with  Harley !" 

These  three  words  settle  all  discussion  on  that  point, 
and  it  is  not  mentioned  again. 

A  loud  clapping  and  pounding  on  the  table  draw  their 
attention  to  Congreve  and  the  gentlemen  opposite.  Con- 
greve  is  strutting  with  mincing  steps  and  affected  gestures 
across  the  lower  end  of  the  room ;  speaking  with  such 
a  laughter-provoking  drawl  that  even  Wharton  smiles  as 
he  looks  at  him,  and  says  aside :  "  The  light-hearted 
knave!"  He  is  ridiculing  the  gait  and  manners  of  the 
most  insufferable  coxcomb  in  London — Sir  Evelyn  Pier- 
point — and  he  hits  off  his  girlish  voice  and  his  strained 
gestures  in  a  really  clever  manner. 

"Gad!"  he  cries,  "Tore  Gad!  I  was  most  mightily 
astounded  that  my  Lady  Betty  did  not  succumb  on 
sight ;  for  'pon  my  soul,  I  had  exercised  almost  half  my 
attractions!  And  stars  and  garters!  Where  I,  Sir 
Evelyn  Pierpoint,  fail,  let  no  man  try — or,  trying,  fail 
ignobly,  Gad !" 

This  wind-up  sets  the  whole  company  in  a  roar  of 
uncontrollable  laughter — the  words  dropped  so  trippingly 
from  his  lips,  and  his  eyes  ogled  them  so  conceitedly. 
The  spice  of  truth  in  the  caricature  renders  it  doubly 
amusing,  so  much  do  we  all  enjoy  the  sight  of  a  ridi 
culed  neighbor,  especially  if  the  ridicule  falls  on  those 
points  on  which  we  are  untouchable,  or  so  consider  our 
selves. 

Wharton,  turning  to  his  companions,  says  in  amused 
despair :  "  Gentlemen,  it  is  worse  than  useless  for  us  to 
converse  on  serious  topics  at  present.  Let  us  leave 
them  for  another  time,  and  help  to  laugh  at  or  with 
roistering,  careless  Congreve!" 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  75 

Yanbrugh,  nothing  loath,  joyfully  assents ;  of  course 
Montague  follows  his  leader. 

"A  toast!  A  toast!  hurrah!"  Glasses  clink  noisily, 
and  every  hand  pounds  loudly  on  the  table.  Wharton 
rises  and  says  :  "  Gentlemen,  let  us  all  drink  '  Long  life 
and  prosperity  to  her  majesty,  and  perdition  to  the 
warming-pan  prince !' " 

The  toast  is  received  with  acclamations,  upturned 
glasses,  and  elevated  noses.  Now  there  are  sundry  calls 
for  "more  lights  and  the  card-tables,"  and  the  attentive 
host  enters  with  a  bow  and  a  smirk.  Christopher  is 
short,  stout,  and  servile  ;  his  eyes  are  like  twin  specks 
in  a  good  potato — small  and  reddish ;  but  there  is  a 
twinkle  of  humor  and  good-fellowship  in  them  notwith 
standing.  His  nose  is  a  Liliputian  carrot,  with  an  up 
ward  tendency. 

"  Yes,  my  noble  gentlemen — in  a  minute.  Diggory  I 
Sam !  You  dogs  !  Quick !  the  tables  for  my  lords ; 
more  lights  and — did  you  say  more  wine  and  punch,  my 
lords?"  He  is  answered  affirmatively  and  backs  out 
again  with  more  bows  and  smirks  ;  reappearing  in  a  few 
minutes  with  a  bowl  of  foaming,  lemon-scented  punch, 
followed  by  Sam  and  Diggorj'-  with  sundry  cases  of  wine 
and  bunches  of  candles  in  their  arms. 

In  a  very  short  time  the  noise  and  confusion  subside, 
and  nearly  all  present  are  absorbed  in  the  chances  of  the 
games  they  are  playing — ombre,  basset,  whist,  or  gleek. 

At  one  table  are  Halifax,  Wharton,  and  Yanbrugh 
pitted  against  one  another  at  gleek ;  and  when  Wharton 
or  Halifax  pla3Ts  there  are  always  interested  lookers-on. 
Says  Halifax  to  Wharton :  "  My  lord,  I  '11  vie  the  ruff." 

Yanbrugh  rejoins,  "  Faith,  I  '11  see  it !" 

Wharton  adds,  "  I  '11  see  it  and  revie  it !" 

Wharton,  who  is  a  skilful,  practised  gamester,  raises 


76  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

the  stakes  so  high  that  Yanbrugh  says  with  a  curse,  "  I'll 
not  meddle  with  it  longer.  Poor  devils  like  myself  must 
not  risk  over  three  figures,"  and  he  ceases  to  play.  Ac 
cordingly,  the  contest  now  lies  between  the  other  two. 

It  must  be  known  that  Halifax  is  a  player  of  no  mean 
calibre,  and  is  not  to  be  despised  by  any  player,  however 
skilful.  He  asks,  "  Two  thousand — did  you  say  my 
Lord  ?" 

Wharton  replies  carelessly,  "Tour  would  be  more  in 
teresting." 

Halifax  nods  his  head,  and  they  play  on. 

The  words  two  thousand  and  four  thousand  at  once 
draw  the  other  players  from  their  tables  to  watch  the 
contest  between  the  two  whose  stakes  have  so  quickly 
reached  such  formidable  proportions  ;  all  cluster  around 
and  intently  survey  these  veteran  gamesters. 

"Wharton  deals,  and  turns  up  the  ace.  "  Tib !"  he 
calls  :  "  fifteen  to  my  score." 

Halifax  smiles,  and  congratulates  him  on  his  good 
fortune. 

After  this,  the  stakes  grow  gradually  higher  until 
Wharton  says,  "  My  lord,  if  you  do  not  object,  we  will 
raise  it  to  fifteen  thousand — sans  revenge;  one  game 
either  way  it  turns  ?" 

A  murmur  of  astonishment  runs  around  the  table. 
The  offer  is  a  bold  one,  for  at  present  Halifax  stands  the 
higher.  He  looks  doubtful  for  a  moment,  but  finally 
says,  in  an  indifferent,  half-attentive  manner,  "  An'  you 
wish  it,  my  lord  ?"  His  eyes,  however,  betray  the  tumult 
in  his  heart ;  and  when  his  cards  are  given  him,  the  in 
tensity  of  his  gaze  is  almost  frightful. 

Vanbrugh  says  with  a  laugh  to  Congreve :  "  It  was 
well  I  retreated.  Faith !  Where  would  I  have  been 
now  ?  eh  ?" 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  77 

His  words  are  interrupted  by  Halifax,  who  slowly 
rises,  and  asks  him  in  a  tranquil  manner  for  the  pen 
which  is  on  the  escritoire :  he  gives  it  to  Halifax,  who 
scribbles  an  order  in  favor  of  Lord  Wharton  for  fifteen 
thousand  guineas ! 


7* 


78  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 


CHAPTEK  XI. 

"I  think  on  thee  in  the  night 

When  all  beside  is  still 
And  the  moon  comes  out,  with  her  pale,  sad  light, 

To  sit  on  the  lonely  hill  ! 
When  the  stars  are  all  like  dreams, 

And  the  breezes  all  like  sighs, 
And  there  comes  a  voice  from  the  far-off  streams, 
Like  thy  spirit's  low  replies  !" 

T.  K. 


THE  two  large  rooms  in  the  Wharton  mansion  that 
are  kept  for  special  or  state  occasions  are  now  filled  with 
a  large  number  of  patrician  dames  and  cavaliers,  all 
apparelled  in  their  brightest.  White  and  pink  tapers, 
perfumed  with  delicate  scents,  dispense  a  mellow,  moon- 
like  lustre,  which  adds  greatly  to  the  beauty  of  the  guests  ; 
while  low  strains  of  music  float  about  and  die  away 
through  the  open  windows. 

Many  couples  stroll  slowly  from  end  to  end  and  back 
again  —  flirting,  laughing,  or  feigning  love  for  amusement. 
Others,  older  or  more  sedate,  sit  about  in  groups  and 
talk  of  her  majesty's  illness,  the  last  pattern  in  bonelace, 
the  state  of  politics  in  France,  the  best  cure  for  the 
vapors,  or  Mademoiselle  Scudery's  last  divine  romance, 
which  fills  only  two  folio  volumes  ! 

Fans  are  in  great  request  —  less,  we  opine,  on  account 
of  the  heat,  than  for  the  purpose  of  tapping  attendant 
beaux  coldly,  lovingly,  or  reprovingly  ;  a  science  culti 
vated  with  great  assiduity  by  all  who  set  themselves  up 
for  belles. 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  19 

Let  us  listen  to  the  conversation  carried  on  by  the 
couple  who  walk  by  us.  To  judge  by  their  serious  coun 
tenances  and  grave  demeanor,  it  is  of  great  import. 

"  Most  true,  Mistress  Robsarte  ;  the  corranto  is  in  the 
main  superior  to  the  Javotte ;  in  that  I  agree  with  you 
entirely ;  but  as  to  the  minor  question  of  the  three  tips 
and  a  half  turn  with  the  left  foot,  in  preference  to  the 
four  glissades,  I  would  disagree  with  you  had  I  but  the 
boldness." 

Whereupon  they  are  more  solemn  than  ever,  and  walk 
consequentially  past,  out  of  earshot. 

Again,  a  couple  of  cavaliers  come  toward  us,  quietly 
laughing  and  twirling  the  waxed  ends  of  their  moustaches, 
which,  by  the  way,  are  cut  in  the  Italian  fashion.  Says 
the  older  of  them :  "  Tut !  my  lord,  it  had  been  better 
if  I  had  touched  his  heart  at  the  first  passado,  instead  of 
shilly-shallying  with  him  for  fifteen  minutes,  and  then 
sending  him  to  a  parson  and  six  feet  of  earth,  with  the 
conceit  in  his  mind  that  he  was  a  good  swordsman." 

So  goes  the  world.  Subjects  that  are  not  worth  the 
breath  we  spend  on  them,  or  the  ink  that  we  waste  in 
writing  about  them,  are  talked  of  and  written  about  with 
a  solemnity  and  seeming  profundity  worthy  of  the  solu 
tion  of  the  Sphynx ;  while  such  light  trifles  as  life  and 
death  are  laughed  at,  and  handled  with  a  smile  and  a 
jest. 

Philip,  standing  by  the  lattice  window  which  looks 
out  on  the  garden,  gazes  abstractedly  on  the  assemblage, 
while  his  thoughts  are  far  away,  as  his  motionless  coun 
tenance  and  his  vacant  eyes  evince.  He  ponders  drearily 
over  his  love,  and  wonders  whether  he  will  ever  be  per 
mitted  to  enjoy  it  without  a  drawback.  Anon  thoughts 
of  her  devotion  surge  up  in  his  heart,  and  he  grows 
angry  with  himself  for  allowing  ideas  so  saddening  to 
take  possession  of  his  mind. 


80  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Lady  Wharton,  who  is  performing  her  hospitable 
duties,  and  receiving  the  guests  with  her  usual  high-bred 
courtesy,  now  and  then  casts  a  glance  at  Philip  and 
seems  irritated  at  his  taciturnity  and  retirement,  for  she 
has  prepared  this  party  especially. for  his  enjoyment,  and 
to  show  to  the  guests  how  well  her  Philip  can  dance,  sing, 
and  speak.  In  these  accomplishments  he  is  far  beyond 
his  years,  and  is  a  match  in  the  lists  of  love  for  any 
London  courtier,  much  more  for  the  beaux  of  Buck's, 
who,  though  refined  and  well-bred,  lack  Philip's  power 
of  phrase  turning  and  his  audacity ;  they  do  not  possess 
his  quickness  of  repartee  and  his  comprehensive  observa 
tion  which  tell  him  at  a  glance  how  to  comport  himself 
in  matters  that  require  delicacy  or  boldness,  denial, 
equivocation,  or  agreement.  In  such  arts  he  can  be  per 
fect  when  he  chooses;  but  his  innate  recklessness,  his 
love  of  praise,  and  his  rollicking  dare  deviltry  often  lead 
him  and  others  into  situations  embarrassing  to  the  last 
degree.  Fortunately  for  himself,  however,  in  such  cases, 
he  generally  manages  to  come  off  scot-free — leaving  his 
companions  to  flounder  about  in  the  slough  of  mistakes, 
exposed  to  the  scornful  glance  of  an  offended  beauty, 
whilst  he  basks  in  her  kindest  smiles. 

The  last  guest  has  received  my  lady's  congratulations, 
and  she  crosses  over  to  Philip,  who  starts  impatiently 
and  ejaculates  in  a  decidedly  unpleasant  manner, 
"  Well  ?" 

To  this  monosyllabic  interrogation  she  replies :  "  Philip 
dear,  do  get  rid  of  your  gloominess ;  it  only  keeps  you 
from  enjoying  yourself;  while  your  mother  cannot  be 
happy  while  her  son  mopes  in  a  corner  like  an  owl  in  a 
barn ;  it  is  not  like  his  usual  behavior." 

"  Mother,"  he  replies,  "  I  am  sick  of  this  riotous  gayety 
and  confusion.  I  would  rather  be  alone.  I  do  not  feel 


OE,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  81 

fit  for  company  to-night ;"  half  turning  his  back  to  her 
he  looks  moodily  out  of  the  window,  as  though  to  put 
an  end  to  the  conversation. 

" Lovesick!"  she  murmurs  with  a  knowing  smile,  and 
bethinks  her  of  a  plan  to  rouse  him  a  little — a  plan  which, 
with  her  knowledge  of  his  weak  point,  is  sure  to  succeed. 
She  says,  as  if  speaking  to  herself,  "Aha !  I  see  my  lord 
of  Dale  monopolizes  the  fair  glances  of  Mistress  Haw- 
thorndon,  and,  faith,  she  seems  greatly  taken  with  him  I" 

Philip  turns  his  head  towards  the  couple  apostrophized : 
my  lady  notices  the  movement,  and  returns  satisfied 
to  her  seat,  confident  that  her  words  have  piqued  his 
vanity,  for  it  is  well  known  that  he  once  laid  a  wager 
that  he  could  rival  this  same  Lord  Dale  in  Mistress 
Hawthorndon's  affections  whenever  he  chose,  and, 
although  she  knows  of  this  same  insolent  wager  as  well 
as  any  one  else,  his  speech  is  so  insinuating  and  honeyed 
that  she  is  powerless  to  repulse  him,  and  sometimes 
hopes  the  wager  may  result  in  his  really  loving  her,  and 
terminate  in  an  alliance  into  which  she  would  be  only  too 
happy  to  enter,  although  he  is  two  years  younger  than 
herself. 

Philip  arranges  his  curls  and  settles  his  cuffs  ;  smooths 
his  cravat,  pushes  his  rapier  into  a  more  elegant  posi 
tion,  and  walks  slowly  towards  Lord  Dale  and  his  part 
ner.  He  addresses  her  in  an  euphuistic  strain,  and 
bestows  a  cold  nod  on  her  cavalier :  "  Fair  Mistress 
Alice,"  he  says,  with  a  truly  refreshing  impudence,  "  I 
now  claim  the  promise  you  gave  me  a  se'nnfght  ago !" 
Extending  his  arm,  which  she  takes  with  a  slight  hesita 
tion,  and  at  the  same  time  bowing  to  Lord  Dale,  he 
coolly  remarks,  "  My  lord,  Mistress  Hawthorndon  can 
now  dispense  with  your  company,  as  I  claim  an  engage 
ment  with  her  which  is  doubtless  prior  to  any  that  you 
may  have!"  The  deserted  beau  leaves  her  with  ill-con- 


82  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

cealed  chagrin,  and  casts  a  spiteful  look  at  his  rival. 
Philip  is  not  in  the  least  discomposed,  but  gracefully 
leads  Mistress  Alice  to  the  upper  end  of  the  room, 
where  he  strengthens  the  influence  which  he  boasts  that 
he  is  able  to  exercise  over  any  woman  with  a  heart  capa 
ble  of  the  tender  passion. 

My  lady  observes  the  success  of  her  ruse,  and  after  a 
time  calls  Philip  to  her,  and  gives  him  some  directions 
in  regard  to  the  music.  Returning  to  Mistress  Alice,  he 
excuses  himself  on  the  score  of  business,  and  leaves 
the  room  to  attend  to  his  mother's  commands. 

Mistress  Alice  is  very  pretty,  vivacious,  and  sprightly. 
Her  hair  is  cut  short  in  front,  and  dances  in  tiny  ringlets 
almost  to  her  eyes,  which  fashion,  together  with  her  un 
covered  bosom  and  arms,  gives  her  the  appearance  of 
one  of  those  beauties  of  Lely,  who  might  have  exchanged 
small  talk  and  scandal  with  his  majesty  of  blessed  mem 
ory. 

********* 

Philip  walks  slowly  along  by  the  spiny,  scarlet-flowered 
hawthorn  hedges,  and  lets  thoughts  of  Margery  wander 
through  his  brain,  dreaming  of  happiness  as  he  swears 
to  himself  that  she  shall  yet  be  his  wife,  spite  of  all  ob 
stacles;  but  his  "chateaux  en  Espagne"  are  suddenly 
shivered  to  fragments  by  a  stealthy  noise  as  of  some 
one  treading  softly  behind  him.  Drawing  his  rapier, 
he  turns  quickly  on  his  heel,  and  lo !  the  figure  of  a  tall 
brawny  man  confronts  him ! 

"  In  Satan's  name !  who  are  you,  that  you  follow  me 
so  closely  ?  Answer  me  at  once,  fellow !  or  I  '11  give  you 
a  taste  of  cold  steel  in  your  stomach  I."  cries  Philip, 
angrily. 

"  Master  Philip,"  replies  the  rough,  harsh  voice  of  the 
gypsy  Maldran,  "  I  was  but  goin'  to  the  camp." 

"  Oh !  it 's  you,  Maldran,  is  it  ?     I  have  wanted  to  see 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  83 

you  for  some  time !  I  have  a  question  or  two  for  you  to 
answer  ere  we  part;"  he  still  keeps  his  rapier  drawn 
and  pointed  threateningly  at  Maldran's  neck,  while  his 
brow  lowers  and  his  voice  is  ominous. 

"  Yes,  Master  Philip,"  he  replies". 

"  Fellow !  Mistress  Holmes  some  time  ago  gave  you 
a  letter  to  carry  to  me  I  This  letter  you  first  carried  to 
my  father  1  Answer  me  at  once,  and  truly — did  you 
not?" 

He  answers  sullenly :  "  I  did,  for  his  gowd  were  too 
strong  for  a  poor  gypsy  to  resist,  and — " 

"Enough!"  interrupts  Philip  ;  "get  out  of  my  sight 
while  you  are  alive,  and  never  again  cross  my  path,  or 
you  and  your  whole  treacherous  tribe  shall  be  cudgelled 
off  the  grounds  j"  and  he  stamps  his  foot  in  suppressed 
rage. 

Maldran,  muttering  something  between  his  teeth, 
strikes  off  at  a  quick  pace  in  the  direction  of  his  camp. 

Philip  continues  his  walk,  and,  consciously  or  other 
wise,  he  approaches  Holme  Grange.  Where  the  heart 
lieth,  do  the  feet  turn.  "  Why  should  Maldran  happen  to 
be  so  close  to  the  mansion  at  this  hour  of  the  night  ?  and 
why  should  he  have  been  so  close  to  me^ — are  questions 
that  arise  as  he  treads  on  the  soft  gorse  and  kicks  the 
fallen  leaves  and  boughs  about  with  vicious  energy. 
Vague  suspicions  that  the  gypsy  is  employed  by  .his  father 
to  watch  his  actions  flit  through  his  mind ;  but  he  can 
scarcely  think  such  baseness  possible.  Anon  thoughts 
of  London,  and  its  sights  and  fascinations  enwrap  him, 
and  his  heart  beats  high  as  he  foresees  how  he  will  some 
day  astonish  even  London's  btase  cavaliers  with  the 
beauty  of  his  Margery,  and  force  the  sickly  court 
beauties  to  envy  her  for  her  rosy  cheeks  and  her  pure 
complexion !  Anon  the  bare  possibility  of  some  one 
taking  her  away  from  him  chills  his  blood  and  makes 


84  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

him  uneasy  and  restless.  But  in  a  short  time  he  smiles 
confidently  as  he  recalls  her  undisguised  love  for  him, 
and  exclaims,  "  Bah !  Philip  Wharton  can  hold  his  own 
in  anything ;  from  a  stramazorm  or  a  stoccata — "  and  he 
fingers  his  rapier  significantly — "  to  a  fight  for  a  woman's 
love !" 

He  has  gradually  approached  so  close  to  the  Grange 
that  he  can  see  into  the  large  hall  where  the  General 
often  sits  in  the  evenings ;  and  a  hungry,  wistful  look 
lights  his  eyes  as  he  perceives  Margery  sitting  alone  in 
the  low  balcony  scarce  a  score  feet  away  from  him! 
A  single  taper  lights  up  the  hall,  for  it  is  late,  and  every 
body  has  retired  save  Margery.  Her  face  is  turned  away 
from  the  light,  and  she  seems  to  scrutinize  the  very  spot 
where  her  lover  lies  concealed.  She  looks  aweary  and 
troubled,  and  her  chin  rests  in  her  little  hand,  while  her 
lips  are  pressed  closely  together.  Once  in  a  while  a 
smile  flickers  on  her  lips  and  dies  away  in  the  sad  depths 
of  her  eyes.  Philip  can  no  longer  restrain  himself, 
he  advances  boldly  towards  her;  but  she  does  not  see 
him  until  he  is  almost  close  enough  to  touch  her ;  when, 
with  a  low  cry,  telling  of  her  intense  relief  and  enjoyment, 
she  flies  into  tys  arms  and  has  to  indulge  in  a  few 
womanly  sobs  before  she  can-  control  herself  enough  to 
say,  "  Philip,  darling !  I  wanted  to  see  you  so  much  to 
night;  it  seems  as  if  God  has  heard  my  prayer,  and 
you  have  come;"  and  she  lifts  her  lips  to  him  with  a 
wild  look  in  her  eyes.  He  caresses  her  tenderly,  and 
eagerly,  asks,  "  Why,  Margery,  sweet !  why  are  you  so 
agitated  ?" 

She  does  not  answer  him,  but  her  renewed  sobs  almost 
madden  him.  Again  he  demands,  "  Tell  me  quickly, 
sweetheart ;  what  ails  you  that  you  are  so  sad  this 
evening  ?  There  is  some  trouble,  I  fear  1" 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  85 

Scarcely  able  to  articulate,  she  cries:  "Philip,  they 
are  going  to  send  me  away  from  you!" 

"  Who  are  going  to  send  you  away  from  me  ?"  he  cries 
in  thick,  hoarse  accents,  and  holds  her  closer  the  while. 

" Father!"  is  all  she  can  answer. 

"  Furies !"  he  mutters ;  "  what  shall  we  do  ?" 

She  replies,  in  a  broken  voice :  "  Let  us  fly  together, 
Philip ;  let  us  leave  this  place !  I  will  give  up  all  for  you ! 
Do  with  me  as  you  will  1" 

He  is  perplexed  and  troubled  beyond  measure  until  a 
ray  of  hope  breaks  in  on  him,  and  he  says,  "  Tell  me, 
darling,  when  is  the  time  fixed  for  your  departure." 

"  I  know  not ;  my  father  but  told  me  that  ere  long  he 
would  send  me  to  Italy ;  but  whether  he  means  to-mor 
row  or  a  year  hence,  I  know  not ;  for  my  heart  nigh 
burst  at  the  news ;  and  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  ques 
tion  him!" 

Her  words  reassure  him,  and  he  replies  cheerily :  "  Let 
your  tears  wait  awhile,  then,  lassie ;  we  must  not  meet 
trouble  half-way  ;  and,  darling,  cease  your  violent  grief; 
you  will  certainly  do  yourself  some  harm !  4  All's  well 
that  ends  well,'  and  the  end  may  yet  be  as  we  wish." 

She  smiles  at  him  through  her  tears,  and  feels,  now 
that  he  is  with  her,  that  all  must  be  right ;  and  she  sits 
chatting  in  his  arms  a  long,  long  while  before  they  can 
leave  each  other  to  get  the  night's  rest  which  is  necessary 
even  for  lovers. 


86  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  A  wanton  ohaos  in  my  breast  raged  high, 
A  wanton  transport  darted  in  mine  eye  ; 
False  pleasure  urged,  and  every  eager  care, 
That  swell  the  soul  to  guilt  and  to  despair." 

CBABBE'S  "  MIRA." 

WE  turn  to  events  a  year  later  than  those  recorded  in 
our  last  chapter,  merely  intimating  that  Margery's  fears 
of  a  separation  from  her  lover  were  justified  only  too  soon, 
for  the  day  after  her  meeting  with  him  her  father  sent 
her  post  to  London,  thence  to  set  out  for  Italy.  Leaving 
Philip  in  great  dismay  and  grief,  she,  poor  girl !  felt  bad 
enough ;  but  she  had  no  other  resource  than  to  obey,  as 
she  was  closely  watched  by  her  father,  who  feared  that 
she  might  do  something  foolish  and  ill-advised  if  she  was 
not  looked  after  with  a  careful  eye. 

Everything  after  that  went  on  as  usual  at  the  castle. 
Philip  employed  his  time  as  best  he  could  in  hard  stud}', 
in  hunting,  hawking,  flirting  with  Mistress  Hawthorn- 
don,  and  in  other  amusements,  but  longed  continually  for 
the  return  of  his  lost  love. 

Margery  has  returned  from  her  travels  as  beautiful  as 
ever,  and  just  a  trifle  more  womanly  and  polished  by  her 
sojourn  in  the  sunny  south. 

Suppose  we  go  to  the  old  try  sting-place  and  see 
whether  we  can  find  any  traces  of  her  or  her  gladdened 
lover.  Listen !  We  can  hear  a  manly  voice  exclaiming, 
in  low,  murmuring  tones,  "  Margery,  sweet  I  long,  wearjr, 
weary  months  have  dragged  along  since  you  and  I  last 
met  here — !  Has  time  altered  you  from  my  true  heart  of 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  87 

oldeii  times  ?     If  it  has — never  mind  telling  me  so — but 
a  curse  on  time  and  on  him  who  took  you  from  me !" 

As  he  finishes,  his  voice  is  irregular  and  broken.  Her 
answer  is  surely  enough  to  reassure  the  most  uxorious 
lover. 

"  Philip,  my  own,  time  and  life  are  nothing  to  me, 
save  when  you  are  with  me  1" 

There  is  a  long  silence  after  this,  until  he  says,  in  a 
serious,  determined  manner:  "Margery,  we  must  part 
no  more !  Come  with  me  to  London,  where  we  will  be 
united  beyond  fear  of  separation  except  by  death." 

She  grows  pale  as  she  listens  to  a  proposal  of  so 
decided  a  nature,  and  whispers, "  Your  father — and  mine." 

"A  god's  will!"  he  exclaims,  fiercely.  "Let  them  do 
as  they  wist,  if  you  come.  But  I  see ;  you  are  like  all 
the  rest — a  short  absence,  and  all  is  forgotten  I  Once  you 
would  have  gone  with  me  to  the  end  of  the  world ;  now, 
London  is  too  far!"  He  speaks  in  a  bitter,  reproachful 
manner,  which  cuts  her  like  a  knife. 

She  answers  him  in  two  words  only:  "Oh,  Philip!" 
but  in  them  he  reads  her  consent,  and  proceeds  in  ex 
cited,  happy  eagerness :  "  Ta-morrow  then,  darling,  we 
will  go  !  Meet  me  here  at  nightfall ;  we  can  reach  Lon 
don  in  a  few  hours,  and — leave  the  rest  to  me ;  I  will 
manage  everything  rightly !" 

Tears  fill  her  eyes  as  she  kisses  him  good-night  with  a 
fervor  telling  him  how  truly  she  is  all  his  own  to  do 
with  as  he  wishes. 

After  a  night  of  feverish  spells  of  broken  sleep,  Philip 
wanders  uneasily  about  the  house  and  through  the 
garden  and  stable,  and  finally  saddling  "  Careless,"  rides 
swiftly  through  the  avenue  of  old  Elms,  passes  Rooks- 
nest,  and  surveys  with  a  fond  regret  all  the  many 
spots  endeared  to  his  memory.  However,  a  few  hours' 
hard  riding  soon  restores  his  spirits,  and  makes  him  feel 


88  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

that  he  is  ready  to  do  and  dare  all  to  call  Margery  his 
wife. 

He  has  packed  up  over  night  all  that  he  will  need  in 
the  shape  of  clothing,  arms,  money,  and  a  hundred  other 
little  things  of  more  or  less  importance ;  and  he  has  also 
written  an  explanation  of  his  conduct  to  his  father,  in 
which  he  tells  him  that  General  Holmes  is  entirely  igno 
rant  of  the  whole  proceeding. 

To  Philip's  great  joy,  the  day  begins  to  draw  to  its 
close;  never  has  day  seemed  so  long  to  him  as  this; 
it  wants  now  but  an  hour  of  the  time  appointed  for  the 
meeting.  He  can  wait  no  longer;  striding  to  the 
stable,  where  he  has  the  two  swiftest  horses  in  the  stud, 
ready  saddled  and  bridled,  he  quietly  leads  them  to 
the  door.  Here  he  hesitates  a  minute  ere  he  springs 
into  the  saddle,  and  looks  towards  his  mother's  room. 
"God  bless  you,  mother!"  he  mutters,  in  a  trembling 
voice,  and  he  is  off  like  a  shot  down  towards  Rooksnest. 

Margery  awaits  him,  with  hood  and  wimple  on,  tearful 
but  hopeful ;  and  he  kisses  her  with  many  and  many  a 
passionate  embrace  ere  she  is  mounted  on  her  pillion. 

Away  they  fly  through  the  forest  gloaming,  swiftly 
and  noiselessly,  for  their  horses'  hoofs  fall  so  soft  on  the 
springy  sod,  that  naught  is  heard  but  the  jingle  of  Philip's 
spurs  and  his  rapier  clinking  against  the  stirrup.  They 
arrive  safely  in  London  without  let  or  hindrance,  and  a 
new  world  is  open  to  their  young  minds. 

Philip  is  cognizant  of  the  fact  that  they  are  both  too 
young  to  hope  to  be  married  in  the  orthodox  manner ; 
he  knows,  however,  that  there  are  clerical  prisoners  living 
within  the  Rules  of  the  Fleet  who  are  poor,  unscrupu 
lous,  and  characterless,  whose  marriages  are  nevertheless 
held  true  and  valid  in  the  eye  of  the  law.  There  he  de 
termines  to  go  with  a  pocketful  of  guineas  to  stop  incon- 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  89 

venient  mouths  which  might  impertinently  question  them 
relative  to  their  ages  or  their  names. 

They  take  lodgings  at  the  Blue  Bell,  where  the  bust 
ling  landlady  soon  has  a  warm  supper  ready  for  them, 
which  neither  feels  overmuch  inclined  to  eat ;  they  are 
both  nervous  and  excited,  and  Margery  is  so  dazed  and 
bewildered  that  she  can  scarcely  speak. 

As  soon  as  the  meal  is  finished,  Philip  says  to  the 
landlady,  in  an  assumed  careless  manner,  "  I  pray  you, 
Dame !  how  may  we  get  to  the  Fleet  without  much  loss 
of  time.  They  say  it  is  very  amusing  to  strangers  to 
see  the  sights  about  there."  He  is  too  new  to  London 
life  to  know  that  such  a  question  is  enough  to  turn  all 
eyes  on  him  and  his  companion;  fortunately,  however, 
there  is  no  one  near  enough  to  hear  him,  beside  the  land 
lady,  except,  indeed,  the  bar-maid,  who,  quickly  looking 
up,  grins  significantly  at  the  unsuspecting  couple. 

"  Truss  me  I  I  were  sure  ye  were  baith  frae  the 
cob'ntry,"  cries  the  landlady  in  a  loud  voice. 

Philip  replies,  with  a  haughty  stare  which  causes  her 
broad  face  to  flush,  "S' blood,  jade!  attend  to  your 
kitchening,  and  meddle  not  with  the  affairs  of  your 
betters!  Either  answer  my  question,  or  begone  and 
send  some  one  who  can  I" 

The  landlady  curtsies  deprecatingly,  and  answers 
humbly,  "  My  lord,  ya  mun  tak  a  chair  to  get  there;  I  '11 
ca'  Pat  and  Dermont,  who  can  carry  ye  there,  as  quick 
as  e'er  a  horse  that  rins."  And  she  leaves  the  room  to 
execute  her  mission,  while  Philip,  though  anxious  and 
troubled  himself,  consoles  his  future  wife  with  endearing 
and  hopeful  conversation. 

When  the  chair  comes,  Philip  calls  the  carriers  aside, 
and  tells  them  of  his  design,  whereat  they  wink,  stick 
their  tongues  in  their  cheeks,  and  generally  show  him 
that  they  know  all  about  such  delicate  matters ;  and  they 

8* 


90  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY  ; 

shoulder  their  burdens,  and  trot  at  a  long,  swinging  pace 
towards  their  destination.  Turning,  as  they  near  the 
confines  of  the  Fleet,  Dermont  asks  Philip  whether  he 
prefers  any  particular  parson  to  splice  them.  Philip 
replying  in  the  negative,  leaves  the  choice  with  the 
carrier,  wherefore  he  replies,  "  'Troth !  thin  we  '11  take 
ye  till  the  Horseshoe  and  Magpie !  Sam  Turenall  is  as 
good  a  clark  as  any,  and  Dick  Wildair  is  a  roarin'  par 
son."  Philip  agrees,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  come  to 
a  halt,  the  door  is  opened,  and  the  carriers  obsequiously 
help  them  out. 

Philip  and  Margery  hesitatingly  enter  the  bar-room, 
the  usual  place  for  Fleet  marriages,  and  are  huskily 
welcomed  by  a  fat,  frowsy,  blear-eyed  imitation  of  Sile- 
nus,  who,  by  instinct,  knowing  what  they  want,  wheezes 
out,  "  Wildair !  ye're  wanted  here."  The  door  of  the 
public  bar  opens,  and  the  parson  enters.  He  is  a  good 
specimen  of  a  licentious  dissipated  clergjonan  of  this 
quarter ;  he  holds  a.  greasy,  dog's-eared  p*rayer-book  in 
his  hands,  and  affects  a  devout  look,  but  the  effort  is  a 
sad  failure. 

Philip  smiles  as  he  compares  him  with  the  venerable 
pastor  at  home ;  and  Margery,  in  spite  of  her  fears,  is 
amused  at  his  appearance. 

Without  entering  into  minute  particulars  of  the  mar 
riage  formula,  which  was  mumbled  and  slurred  over  as 
soon  as  possible,  let  it  suffice  to  say  they  are  now  man 
and  wife. 

A  rather  laughable  incident  occurred  at  the  close  of 
the  ceremony,  which  is  worth  mentioning.  The  parson, 
in  accordance  with  his  custom,  was  about  to  imprint  a 
chaste  kiss  on  Margery's  blushing  cheek,  when  Philip 
interposed  his  hand  to  shield  her  from  the  profanation, 
and  received  the  smack  of  a  pair  of  swollen,  unctuous  lips 
on  it — a  diversion  which  caused  the  holy  man  to  redden 


OR,    PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  91 

a  trifle,  while  the  host  and  the  carriers  roared  delightedly 
at  his  discomfiture.  Philip  said  nothing,  however,  but 
gave  him  a  liberal  douceur,  out  of  which  the  carriers 
received  a  shilling  ;  he  then  led  his  wife  to  the  chair,  and 
directed  the  carriers  to  return  to  the  Blue  Bell. 


92  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST    ENEMY J 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  Jubilate  !  I  am  loved  ; 
Now  am  I  like  a  little  queen, 
And  very  pleasant  'tis,  I  ween  ; 
Whatsoe'er  I  do  or  say 
Seeinetli  right  and  good  alway." 

ELIZ.  YOWATT. 

"0  Nature  !  we  a'  maun  yield  to  thee." 

JAMES  HOGG. 

ONCE  more  they  are  alone  in  the  cheery  little  room 
allotted  to  them.  Margery  is  full  of  vague  terrors  and 
doubts  which  she  scarcely  knows  how  to  define,  and  says 
distractedly,  "  Philip,  do  you — oh !  what  will  father  think 
of  me  ?  What  will  he  do  ?  It  will  break  his  heart !  I 
have  been  so  cruel  to  him  I" 

Philip  consoles  her,  and  replies  manfully,  "  Cheer  up, 
wifie !  All  will  be  well  in  time,  be  sure ;  and  ere  long 
our  fathers  will  be  better  friends  than  ever.  There  is  no 
real  cause  for  trouble.  We  will  remain  here  awhile,  and 
then  return  home.  I  know  that  all  will  be  right,  and 
then  we  will  all  live  together  and  be  as  happy  as  the  day 
is  long!" 

Margery  smiles  at  the  happy  picture  he  has  drawn,  while 
her  woman's  prescience  tells  her  that  the  odds  are  against 
them,  and  she  shudders  as  Lord  Wharton's  cruel  face 
passes  before  her  mind's  eye,  and  she  involuntarily  recalls 
dark  stories  of  his  crafty  determination,  and  his  utter 
lack  of  principle,  which  had  reached  her  even  in  the 
seclusion  of  Holme  Grange ;  and  she  fears  that  his  power 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE    OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  93 

may  wrest  Philip  from  her  again.  Her  own  father,  she 
knows,  will  gladly  welcome  her  home  even  after  such  a 
flagrant  disobedience  of  his  orders  as  she  has  been  guilty 
of  in  running  away  with  Philip.  The  artful  beauty,  con 
scious  of  her  power  over  him,  knows  that  the  old  warrior 
cannot  withstand  the  tears  and  entreaties  of  his  only 
daughter, 

Philip's  thoughts  are  of  the  most  mixed  and  startling 
character ;  will  his  father  pursue  him  ?  or  mayhap  dis 
own  him?  But  that,  he  proudly  thinks,  cannot  harm 
him :  for  are  there  not  in  this  great  city  fifty  things  at 
which  he  can  make,  at  least  enough  to  keep  them  both 
from  starving  ?  "  Separate  us  1"  he  cries ;  "  Pah  1  I  feel 
myself  a  giant  when  Margery  is  the  stake  to  be  fought 
for !  God  forfend  I  should  ever  draw  steel  on  my  father ; 
but — "  And  he  coughs  ominously,  and  says,  in  a  bold, 
confident  tone,  "  Well,  Margery,  we  will  not  fret  about 
it.  If  needs  must,  we  can  live  by  our  own  exertions  1" 

"  What  can  we  do  ?"  she  asks,  with  a  demure  glance 
at  him,  as  if  she  knows  that  the  question  will  pose  him. 
He  looks  perplexed,  for  a  moment,  and  laughs  good- 
humoredly  as  he  declines  to  answer  the  question ;  and 
he  closes  her  mouth  by  a  process  commendable  in  such 
cases,  in  which  process,  by  the  way,  she  assists  him  right 
deftly. 

The  next  day  Philip  proposes  a  walk  to  view  the 
wonders  of  the  metropolis,  to  which  she  of  course  assents, 
and  they  are  now  gazing  with  eager  eyes  at  the  strange 
sights  presented  to  their  view.  Immersed  as  he  has  been 
in  the  seclusion  of  the  country,  Philip  has  never  thought 
that  he  should  see  so  vast  a  number  of  houses,  or  mix  in 
such  a  beehive  of  busy  pedestrians,  who  jostle  and  swarm 
about  in  countless  multitudes. 

They  peep  into  the  china-stores  and  bric-a-brac  shops, 
and  mutually  smile  at  the  grotesque  josses  and  uncouth 


94  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

images  ;  and  Philip,  who  has  read  about  such  things 
before,  imparts  information  concerning  them  to  his 
young  wife.  She  listens  admiringly  to  him,  and  wonders 
at  his  vast  and  varied  knowledge .  But  I  am  sorry  to 
state  that,  on  several  occasions,  when  she  requests  an 
explanation  of  something  which  he  knows  no  more  about 
than  she,  he  draws  largely  on  his  imagination,  his  pride 
not  allowing  him  to  betray  his  ignorance. 

He  buys  numerous  trinkets  for  her ;  in  most  cases  pay 
ing  far  more  for  them  than  they  are  worth,  owing  to 
his  ignorance  of  their  value,  and  the  adroitness  of  the 
sellers,  who  notice  his  rusticity,  and  cheat  him  accord 
ingly.  Once  or  twice  his  natural  shrewdness  tells  him 
that  such  is  the  case,  but  he  disdains  to  bandy  words 
with  a  tradesman,  and  so  pays  all  demands  with  the  air 
of  a  czar  with  all  the  Indies  at  his  nod  and  beck. 

Now  they  come  to  Temple  Bar,  with  its  sooty,  black 
ened  gateway  of  Portland  stone.  Margery  shivers  in 
affright  as  Philip  calls  her  attention  to  the  traitors' 
skulls  whitening  on  the  poles  above  the  arch  ;  and  he 
tells  her  about  the  vast  processions  which  have  passed 
through  these  muddy  gates,  and  how  the  doors  have 
been  barred  against  the  King  until  the  herald  sounded 
a  parley,  to  all  of  which  she  listens  with  intense  interest, 
meanwhile  counting  the  many  lumbering  carriages  that 
rumble  noisily  by ;  she  had  never  before  seen  so  many 
together. 

Whilst  they  have  been  admiring  Temple  Bar  and  its 
adjuncts,  they  have  not  noticed  the  gradual  approach  of 
a  swaggering  cut-purse,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  faded  taw- 
driness  who  now  suddenly  clutches  at  the  little  package 
which  Margery  holds,  and  makes  off  with  it  at  great 
speed.  Philip  starts  to  pursue  him,  but  Margery  pre 
vents  him,  and  beseeches  him  not  to  leave  her  alone. 
"  She  can  better  spare  the  trinkets  than  lose  him."  A 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  95 

few  who  have  seen  the  occurrence,  gather  about  them, 
and  officiously  advise  Philip  to  go  to  the  nearest  magis 
trate,  describe  the  rascal  and  offer  a  reward  for  his  de 
tection  ;  declining  their  advice,  however,  he  tries  to  walk 
away  unperceived,  as  he  is  not  desirous  of  attracting 
too  much  attention,  for  Margery's  sake,  who  begins  to 
be  frightened  at  the  crowd  which  is  gathering  and 
thickening.  Various  remarks  pass  around,  and  a  few 
persons  begin  to  praise  Margery's  beauty  and  her  fresh 
ness,  for  a  face  so  pure  and  innocent  as  hers  is  seldom 
seen  in  jaded  London.  A  gang  of  mischievous  Arabs 
and  pseudo-beggars  begin  scrambling  and  pushing  about 
in  all  directions,  in  order  to  excite  the  testy,  and  thereby 
create  a  fight,  which  is  always  looked  upon  by  them  as  a 
treat  of  the  highest  order. 

Two  gallants,  ruffled  and  dressed  to  the  tij!>  of  the 
mode,  and  scented  with  pulvilio  and  honey-sweet,  brush 
rather  nearer  to  Margery  than  Philip  thinks  consistent 
with  good  manners,  particularly  as  they  severally  favor 
her  with  a  long  stare,  that  makes  her  shrink  closer  to 
him ;  so,  placing  himself  quickly  in  front  of  her,  he 
catches  the  foremost  dandy  by  the  nose,  tweaking  him 
so  fiercely  as  to  cause  him  to  scream  with  pain,  at  which 
the  crowd  roar  and  yell  with  a  deafening  noise,  and 
cries  of,  "  A  fight !  a  fight !  form  a  ring — fair  play !"  are 
heard  on  all  sides. 

Margery  swoons  in  affright,  and  Philip  supports  her, 
while  he  cries,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  rage :  "  What 
now,  Sir  Malapert  ?  Out  of  my  road,  or  I  '11  run  you 
through,  and  spoil  a  hangman's  carcass  I"  He  draws 
his  rapier  as  quickly  as  he  can  under  the  circum 
stances  ;  the  tweaked  cavalier  does  the  same,  and  their 
blades  meet  with  a  harsh,  rasping  sound.  Philip  is  so 
excited  and  desperate  that  he  does  not  care  for  conse 
quences,  and  determines  to  essay  his  father's  famous 


96  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

passado  in  carte,  a  sure  and  fatal  lunge;  when  cries 
of  "The  watch!  the  watch !  1"  burst  from  several  by 
standers  ;  his  opponent,  sheathing  his  rapier  at  once, 
mingles  with  the  crowd,  and  is  soon  safe  from  detec 
tion.  Philip,  however,  less  conversant  with  city  life 
and  its  stratagems  and  usages,  still  holds  his  blade  on 
the  offensive.  In  a  minute  a  hand  is  roughly  laid  on  his 
arm,  and  he  is  told  in  a  gruff  voice  to  "  sheathe  his  slit- 
bully,  and  take  up  his  march  to  the  round-house!" 
Seeing  the  futility  of  resistance,  he  puts  up  his  rapier, 
and  points  to  Margery,  who  lies  senseless  in  his  arms. 
The  watchman  looks  at  her  a  moment,  and  mutters,  in 
a  low  voice,  "  A  pest  on  the  trull !  We  mun  carry  her, 
I  doubt  na!"  Philip,  who  has  heard  part  of  his  speech, 
replies  sternly,  "  What  say  you,  fellow,  touching  my 
wife  ?"  The  man's  manner  changes  as  he  replies,  "  Ah ! 
my  lord,  that  alters  matters.  Zounds !  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  wi'  her ;"  and  he  pulls  his  chin  in  perplexity. 
"  I  think  I  can  help  you  to  a  solution  of  the  difficulty," 
Philip  says  significantly,  and  he  wisely  drops  a  sovereign 
into  the  custodian's  dirty,  knotty  hand.  The  effect  is 
instantaneous,  and  the  former  grim  official  is  now  a 
truckling  servant,  who,  at  Philip's  suggestion,  yells 
vociferously  for  a  chair,  into  which  he  helps  him  to  seat 
Margery,  who  is  scarcely  restored  from  her  swoon ; 
Philip  springs  in  after  her,  and  once  more  they  re 
turn  to  the  Blue  Bell  without  any  serious  mishap, 
Philip  fuming  at  his  ill-luck  in  getting  into  a  brawl  so 
early  in  his  London  life,  and  Margery  still  hysterical, 
and  requiring  a  deal  of  consolation  and  many  caresses 
before  she  fully  recovers  from  her  fright. 

Philip,  whose  appetite  is  now  sharpset,  orders  the  land 
lady  to  prepare  them  a  dinner,  which  in  due  time  is  set 
on  the  table,  with  all  the  ceremony  of  which  the  one 
waitress  is  mistress,  for  it  is  not  every  day  that  the  Blue 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  97 

Bell  has  customers  who  pay  so  liberally  and  profusely  as 
does  Philip.  Veal  pies,  baked  larks,  and  mutton  pottage 
fill  the  little  table,  and  send  an  appetizing  odor  about 
the  room,  and  even  Margery,  who  cannot  live  on 
cupid's  fare  altogether,  deigns  to  test  the  delicacy  of  a 
lark's  breast,  and  "just  a  wee  crumb  of  veal-pie,"  at 
Philip's  urgent  solicitation. 


98  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY} 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

So  judged  the  acrid  and  the  austere, 

And  they  whose  evil  heart 
Incline  them  in  whate'er  betides, 

To  take  the  evil  part. 

But  others,  whom  a  kindlier  frame, 

To  better  thoughts  inclined, 
Preserved,  amid  their  wonderment, 

An  equitable  mind. 

ALL  FOR  LOVE. 

THE  flight  has  been  discovered  at  both  Castle  Whar- 
ton  and  Holme  Grange,  and  all  is  confusion  and  dismay 
Lady  Wharton  has  despatched1  a  messenger  with  an 
explanatory  note  to  Lord  Wharton,  in  which  she  be 
seeches  him  to  come  home  immediately;  while  she 
scarcely  knows  what  she  intends  to  say  or  do  when  he 
shall  arrive,  knowing  how  fearful  will  be  his  passion  at 
the  turn  affairs  have  taken. 

General  Holmes  is  wonderstruck  at  his  daughter's 
wilfulness,  and  vows  that  she  must  have  acquired  a 
pretty  spirit  of  independence  during  her  tour  abroad,  to 
prompt  her  to  leave  him  and  fly  to  London  with  her 
lover.  He  regrets  the  step  she  has  taken,  but  is  some 
what  comforted  by  a  confident  feeling  that  when  she 
does  return  it  will  be  as  Philip  Wharton's  wife.  Never 
theless,  he  has  written  to  his  lawyer  in  London,  di 
recting  him  to  search  for  the  runaways,  and  send  him 
intelligence  of  their  doings. 

When  her  ladyship  fully  realized  the  news,  a  chill 
struck  to  her  heart ;  and  she  was  put  to  bed,  burning  in 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  99 

a  high  fever,  produced  by  thoughts  of  the  meeting  which 
she  knew  must  come,  ere  long,  between  father  and  son, 
and  which  she  intensely  dreaded.  Then  recollections  of 
her  husband's  baffled  schemes,  and  her  son's  fiery,  reck 
less  temper,  boiled  through  her  throbbing  head,  and  she 
groaned  at  the  future  trouble  whose  dark  wings  even 
now  cast  a  shadow  over  the  house. 

The  servants  and  dependants,  congregating  in  knots 
in  the  chambers",  the  scullery,  and  the  stables,  whisper 
of  my  lady's  illness  and  Master  Philip's  behavior,  and 
all  concur  in  the  opinion  that  there  never  was  a  better 
matched  couple  in  the  world  than  Master  Philip  and 
Mistress  Margery.  Shem,  who  abstractedly  plumes  the 
ger-falcon  on  his  wrist,  says  to  Peggy,  the  housemaid  : 
"  Aweel !  I  allus  thought  it  'ud  end  i'  this  way ;  forbye 
they  were  never  easy  like  except  in  ane  anither's  com 
pany  ;  an  love  laughs  at  bolts  or  bars,  ye  ken.  I  re 
member  when  I  was  younger  by  twenty  years  than  I  am 
now — afore  Debbie  war  my  wife — that  old  grandame  Nest- 
bin  said  to  me  wi'  a  shake  o'  her  skinny  finger,  '  No ! 
Shem  Throck,  ye  canna  hae  her ;  sho'os  a  deal  too  good 
for  3*6  or  the  likes  of  ye !'  Ah !  ha  \  the  varra  next  neet 
Debbie  an'  me  were  spliced  by  t'  ould  parson,  an'  I  gave 
him  a  shillin'  for  his  trouble.  Ay !  ay !  Love  laughs  at 
bolts!"  And  Shem  shakes  his  head  sagely  as  he  delivers 
himself  of  this  profound  and  original  thought. 

"  Body's  alive !"  replies  Peggy,  "thoif'rt  no'  comparin' 
thy  sen  wi'  the  young  master  ?" 

He  answers  her  with  a  withering  look,  and  words  that 
must  cut  her,  to  judge  from  her  expression,  as  he  retorts, 
"  Mistress  Peggy,  it  'ud  beseem  ye  better  to  bide  a  wee 
bit  an'  get  the  experience  o'  one  older — but  mebbe  not 
so  much  as  yersen,"  which  diplomatic  allusion  to  her 
advanced  age  for  single-blessedness,  effectually  silences 


100  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

her,  and  she  walks  sulkily  back  to  her  task  of  scouring 
stew-pans  and  kettles. 

"  Hood  me,  wench,"  laughs  Shem,  as  he  notices  her 
discomfiture,"!  but  fooled  wi' ye!  Sure  ye '11  no'  get 
mad  wi'  me  for  a  bit  o'  nonsense  ?"  This  apology  appears 
to  mollify  her,  for  she  mixes  again  in  the  general  talk  of 
the  kitchen. 

Brad,  who  stands  near  the  crockery-laden  sideboard, 
close  to  Mistress  Debbie,  boldly  volunteers,  "  I  think 
Master  Philip  did  no  mair  than  reet  in  rmning  awa',  an' 
well  I  like  his  darin' !" 

"  Hold  thy  tongue,  saucebox,"  roars  Shem,  astounded 
at  his  son  being  so  audacious  as  to  give  such  a  free  vent 
to  his  opinions,  even  when  he  agreed  with  him ;  he  pro 
ceeds,  "  Hae  mair  respect  for  the  hand  that  feeds  us  a', 
an'  keep  yersel  to  yersel !  Mayhap  ye  '11  try  the  same 
thing  yersel,  some  day?" 

This  produces  a  titter  through  the  kitchen,  which 
causes  Brad's  red  cheeks  to  assume  a  decidedly  scarlet 
color,  as  he  replies,  rather  doggedly,  "  I  might  do  worse 
nor  rin  awa'  wi'  pretty  Meg  Busbie !  I  think  so,  at  any 
rate,"  and  with  this  parting  shot  the  incensed  Brad  leaves 
the  room  in  disgust. 

The  stable  boy,  a  bow-legged,  pimply-faced,  red-haired 
lad,  standing  outside  on  the  lawn,  stares  with  lacklustre 
eyes  on  the  "  company"  within,  and  drawls  out  in  pul 
ing,  heavy  accents  the  news  that  "  My  loard's  two  best 
horses  be  gone,  Careless  an'  Queean  Anne  !  wi'  their 
bridles,  saddles,  and  a'.  What 's  more,  my  la'as  best 
pillion  be  gone,  an'  I  'm  afeared  to  tell  her  la'aship 
o  'it !" 

"  Out  on  ye,"  cries  Debbie ;  "  what  cares  my  lady 
about  a  pillion  or  sae  ?  Master  Philip  is  mair  i'  her 
mind  now  than  a'  the  dirty  pillions  i'  the  stables  !" 

This  scornful  rejoinder  raises  his  wrath,  and  he  re- 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          101 

plies,  with  an  injured  stutter,  "  Mistress  Debbie,  oi  can 
tell  ye  that  a  guid  horse  an'  pillion  is  often  better  nor  the 
woman  that  rides  her,  wha's  naught  to  recommend  her 
but  a  red  face  an'  a  clackin'  tongue !  Now,  then  1" 

Her  reply  is  imperious  :  "  Hold  thy  tongue,  gallows- 
bird  !  An'  recollect  ye  are  near  the  kitchen,  now,  an' 
not  in  filthy  stables  an'  among  muck  an'  straw!  So  hold 
thy  tongue !"  And  she  turns  her  back  to  him  to  end  the 
discussion. 

Shem,  walking  to  the  door,  starts  towards  the  Lodge. 
Let  us  precede  him,  and  once  more  peep  into  its  mys 
teries  of  hunting  gear  and  sportsman's  implements. 
Brad  is  sitting  on  the  floor;  his  head  rests  against 
the  wall,  and  he  is  absorbed  in  a  brown  study,  which 
is  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  his  father,  who,  slowly 
walking  to  his  accustomed  seat,  says  to  Brad,  who  is 
now  looking  out  of  the  window:  "Brad,  did  ye  knaw 
aught  about  the  rinning  awa'  afore  it  happened?"  And 
he  looks  searchingly  at  him  as  he  asks  the  question.  His 
reply  is  clear  and  distinct,  and  has  truth's  clear  ring 
sounding  in  its  every  syllable,  "  No,  father  1  I  did  not, 
on  my  honor  I" 

Shem  is  satisfied,  and  he  resumes,  "  Rebeck  me !  but 
I  never  thought  Master  Philip  was  in  earnest  when  he 
tould  me  anoe  in  this  varra  room  that  if  Mistress  Mar 
gery  did  go  to  Lunnon  wi'  him,  she  suld  go  as  his  woife  I 
He  has  kept  his  word,  an'  the  worst  I  fear  now  is  that 
my  lord  may  find  him  out  and  stop  him  ere  he  can  be 
married  there.  It  'ud  be  a  sair  thing  for  wee  Mistress 
Margery  to  go  to  Lunnon  a  maid,  an'  come  back  wi'out 
bein'  a  wife!  Master  Philip  is  reckless,  an'  he  is  a 
Wharton!" 

Brad  says  nothing,  but  whistles  "  Lillibullero"  at  the 
window,  and  inhales  deep,  strong  breaths  of  the  breeze 
which  has  to  pass  over  Meg  Busbie's  house  before  it 

9* 


102  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

reaches  the  Lodge,  by  which  time  it  gains  a  certain  fra 
grance  perceptible  only  to  himself.  Suddenly  he  starts 
and  strides  out  of  the  door  in  such  a  hurry  that  wary 
Shem  determines  to  have  a  look  at  his  proceedings.  He 
peeps  out  of  the  window,  and,  as  he  expected,  sees  Meg's 
pretty  face  over  the  hawthorn  hedges,  and  catches  a 
glimpse  of  her  neat  cap  and  fluttering  ribbons  as  they 
dance  and  wave  in  the  breeze. 

Brad  walks  quickly  towards  her  and  exclaims :  "  Oho  ! 
Meg,  I  was  sure  you  were  coming  this  way,  for  as  I 
looked  out  of  the  window  scarce  a  minute  ago,  I  saw 
two  butterfliqe  sailin'  companywise,  an'  I  knew  it  was  a 
lucky  sign  1" 

She  replies,  in  a  coquettish  manner,  "  Brad,  you  told 
me  that  once  afore !  Are  ye  sure  that  ye  are  not  telling 
a  wee  bit  o'  a  lee  ?  for  I  never  see  two  pretty-wings  a 
mating  when  ye  come  to  see  me !" 

He  replies,  "  Well,  Meg,  we  '11  no'  discuss  the  ques 
tion,  as  my  lord  says ;  but  what  errand  have  ye  to  the 
castle?" 

"  None  for  ye,  be  sure,"  she  replies ;  "  I  have  some 
lace  ruffles  for  Master  Philip." 

"  Master  Philip  ?"  he  cries.  "  Don't  ye  knaw  that  he 
has  rin  awa'  to  Lunnon  wi'  Mistress  Holmes  ?" 

Meg  is  so  taken  aback  that,  as  she  afterwards  de 
clared,  "she  was  that  startled  that  if  Brad  had  nae 
pit  his  arm  aroun'  her  waist,  she  must  hae  fallen !" 
Brad  is  fully  equal  to  the  emergency,  in  fact  seems  to 
enjoy  the  whole  proceeding.  Now  Meg  is  in  her  glory — 
"  such  a  bold  thing  to  do !  So  romantic,"  and  plies  him 
with  question  after  question  until  she  knows  as  much  as 
himself,  and  with  woman's  shrewdness,  surmises  more. 

Thus  stand  affairs  in  Bucks. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHABTON'S   CAREER.  103 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"Just  when  we  think  we've  found  the  golden  mean— 
The  diamond  point,  on  which  to  balance  fair 
Life  and  life's  lofty  issues — weighing  there, 
With  fractional  precision,  close  and  keen, 
Thought,  motive,  word  and  deed — there  comes  between 
Some  temper's  fret,  some  mood's  unwise  despair, 
To  inar  the  equilibrium,  unforeseen, 
And  spoil  our  nice  adjustment !" 

M.  J.  PRESTON,  "  EQUIPOISK." 

ENGLAND'S  last  Stuart  is  no  more — hurried  to  her 
grave  by  the  cabals  and  intrigues  of  two  virulent,  selfish, 
parties,  each  struggling  for  the  supremacy.  She  died  at 
a  most  auspicious  time  for  the  partisans  of  the  Hano 
verian  dynasty  and  the  Protestant  succession,  for, 
during  the  last  year  of  her  life,  her  feelings  had  become 
strongly  enlisted  in  favor  of  her  brother,  the  Chevalier, 
which  sympathy  had  been  taken  advantage  of  by  the 
intriguing  Jacobites  in  order  to  secure  to  him  the  acces 
sion  when  she  was  dead.  But,  as  I  said  before,  her 
decease  at  a  time  when  Bolingbroke's  plans  were  imma 
ture,  frustrated  all  attempts  in  that  direction,  and  at 
once  transferred  the  balance  to  the  Whigs  ;  and  Harley, 
Bolingbroke,  and  Mistress  Abbie  were  forced  into  semi- 
obscurity,  with  the  odium  of  the  termination  of  the 
French  war  and  the  treaty  of  Utrecht  hanging  over 
them  like  a  pall,  while  the  dominant  party  were  praised 
to  the  skies  for  their  diplomacy  in  accomplishing  a  work 
which  had  baffled  and  worried  the  ablest  statesmen  of 
the  three  preceding  reigns — namely,  the  union  of  Eng 
land  and  Scotland. 


104  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

The  Augustan  Age,  with  its  hosts  of  able  writers,  its 
pure,  humorous  "  Spectator,"  and  its  many  literary  lumi 
naries,  is  no  more.  The  first  Hanoverian  has  brought 
his  gross  tastes,  his  dull  brutality,  and  his  fat,  ugly, 
mistresses  to  Saint  James,  besides  having  an  eye  to  his 
boon  companions  and  advisers,  who  look  on  England  as 
a  land  to  be  despoiled  for  their  especial  benefit.  I  almost 
forgot  to  mention  that  he  has  a  wife,  who  came  with  the 
rest  of  the  court — the  unfortunate  Sophia  Dorothea. 
The  family  quarrels  and  dissensions  of  the  royal  family 
are  too  notorious  to  deserve  more  than  a  passing  notice. 
The  ministry  is  composed  of  Halifax,  Cowper,  Stanhope, 
Sunderland,  and  other  eminent  Whigs,  Robert  Walpole, 
who  primarily  filled  a  low  position,  is  now  more  fully  appre 
ciated,  and  has  attained  the  high  eminence  of  First  Lord 
of  the  Treasury.  Such  are  the  men  who  hold  office  under 
the  degraded  Othello  who  imprisoned  Philip  von  Konigs- 
mark  in  the  Castle  of  Ahlden  for  thirty-two  years,  for  a 
suspected  intrigue  with"  his  truly  beloved  Sophia. 

Lord  Wharton,  jubilant  at  the  unexpected  good  for 
tune  that  has  befallen  his  party,  can  scarcely  contain 
himself  for  joy.  He  is  now  Marquis  of  Wharton  and 
Lord  Privy  Seal  in  the  ministry,  where  his  unequalled 
parliamentary  tactics  secure  him  respect  and  admiration. 
One  blight,  however,  sobers  his  happiness — the  thorn  of 
the  rose;  it  is  the  news  of  Philip's  elopement  with  Mar 
gery,  who,  he  fears,  is  by  this  time  his  daughter-in-law,  for 
the  news  has  only  reached  him  to-day — the  second  after 
the  occurrence.  Philip's  action  is  a  great  blow  to  him, 
and  his  heart  aches  and  his  head  grows  hot,  as  he  reviews 
the  ad  vantages- that  might  have  been  secured  to  his  family 
through  Philip's  alliance  with  the  powerful  house  which 
he  had  selected  for  that  honor.  Alas,  it  is  now  too  late ! 

He  knows  that  Philip  will  reveal  himself  ere  long, 
either  in  London  or  in  Buck's,  and  then  he  determines 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON's   CAREER.  105 

to  send  him  out  of  his  sight,  on  the  continent,  where, 
with  a  due  consideration  of  his  volatile,  capricious  tem 
perament,  he  can  be  made  as  polished  a  scholar  and  as 
staunch  a  Whig  as  circumstances  will  permit. 

It  is  in  the  Kitcat  room  that  Lord  Wharton  muses 
thus  over  the  unfilial  conduct  of  his  recreant  son,  and 
thoughts  of  him  fill  his  mind  with  chagrin  and  sorrow. 
His  dreams  oi  Philip's  future  greatness  and  his  hopes 
that  he  would  one  day  be  the  respected  head  of  the  party 
of  which  he  is  a  mainstay,  are  now  vanishing.  The 
door  opens  and  Vanbrugh  strolls  in,  humming  "  Marlbo- 
rough  s  'en  va  en  Guerre"  with  a  jaunty  air.  Noticing  his 
despondent  attitude,  and  his  obliviousness  of  the  pre 
sence  of  his  friend,  Yanbrugh  taps  him  on  the  shoulder. 
Wharton  raises  his  head  with  a  displeased  expression  on 
his  face,  but  Vanbrugh 's  laughing,  brown  eyes  force  him 
to  be  good-humored  against  his  will,  and  he  exclaims, 
"  Peace,  you  Goth !  I  am  cynical,  misanthropical !"' 

"  Goth  yourself,  Sir  Timon,"  replies  Yanburgh  ;  "  we'll 
have  a  bowl  of  Kit's  best  punch.  It  will  aroint  the 
vapors.  As  for  being  cynical,  I  trow  that  I  have  as 
much  right  to  that  disposition  as  yourself,  for  the  huzzy 
Malborough  swears  that  she  will  never  pay  me  my  claims 
on  her  for  the  house.  Faith,  if  she  does  not,  my  creditors 
will  tremble,  and  all  Jewdom  will  be  in  an  uproar.  Ugh !" 
he  ejaculates  with  an  expression  of  loathing,  "how 
abhorrent  to  my  feelings  it  is  to  have  the  dirty  paw  and 
black-rimmed  nails  of  a  bum-bailiff  Shylock  tap  me  on 
the  shoulder.  Have  you  ever  felt  the  sensation,  my 
lord  ?"  he  queries,  laughingly. 

"  No,"  replies  Wharton,  adding,  in  a  bitter  tone,  "  but  I 
have  felt  a  worse  sensation  within  a  mighty  short  time." 

"  Possible  !  What  may  that  be,  if  the  question  is 
not  impertinent?" 

Wharton  replies  briefly,  "  A  wilful  son !' 


106  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

"S'blood!  yes,  I  did  hear  something  about  Philip's 
escapade.  Tell  me  all  about  the  affair,  I  beg,  if  it  is  not 
private  I" 

"  If  it  was,  Vanbrugh,  faith !  I  doubt  your  power  of 
unquestioning.  However,  as  it  will  soon  be  food  for 
London  scandal,  I  '11  even  tell  you ;  it  will  take  but  a 
dozen  words.  The  lad  ran  off  with  a  Mistress  Holmes, 
a  country  squireen's  daughter,  of  course  against  my 
wishes — c'est  tout  /"  His  face  grows  gloomy  and  stern 
again  as  he  finishes. 

"  A  trifle  like  your  own  freaks  when  younger,  my  lord ! 
except  that  with  you,  it  never  ended  in  hymen,  as  they 
say  Philip's  has — ta-ta,"  he  exclaims ;  leaving  my  lord  to 
honor  Kit  with  a  visit  and  so  test  the  purity  of  his  Nantz. 

As  soon  as  Wharton  received  the  intelligence  of  the 
elopement,  he  sent  a  lawyer  to  inspect  the  registers  of 
the  Fleet-parsons,  to  see  whether  they  were  married 
there.  The  search  was  disappointingly  successful,  and 
for  a  small  fee,  the  lawyer  received  a  copy  of  the  docu 
ment,  which  Wharton  stuffed  into  his  pocket  with  a 
fierce  oath. 

His  heart  is  savage  as  he  muses  over  Philip's  mean 
alliance,  and  he  "is  so  absorbed  in  his  thoughts  that 
he  does  not  notice  the  approach  of  a  servant  until 
he  is  respectfully  addressed,  "  My  lord,  a  letter  for 
your  lordship  I"  He  lifts  it  off  the  salver,  and  starts 
violently  as  he  recognizes^  Philip's  handwriting.  Break 
ing  the  seal,  he  smooths  the  crisp  paper  on  the  table,  and 
reads  it  with  close  attention :  Philip  tells  him  that  Mar 
gery  is  now  his  wife,  and  the  object  of  his  deepest  love — 
at  which  part  my  lord  mutters,  "  Cursed  idiot !" — and  it 
now  depends  on  his  father  whether  he  shall  return  to 
Buck's  or  remain  in  London ;  and  he  hints  that  it  matters 
little  whether  or  not  his  father  disowns  him  altogether. 
The  tone  of  the  letter  is  cool  and  haughty,  and  is 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTONrS   CAREER.  107 

written  in  a  spirit  of  careless  indifference  which  cuts  to 
its  reader's  heart.  He  considers  long  and  seriously  over 
Philip's  communication,  and  notes  his  defiant  attitude  in 
every  word.  He  knows  that,  if  he  disowns  him,  Philip 
will  necessarily  go  to  ruin  in  a  very  short  time,  and  he 
has  no  wish  to  create  further  topics  of  scandal  and  incur 
the  odium  that  will  surely  attach  to  him  if  he  pursues 
harsh  measures. 

Lord  Wharton  resolves  to  go  and  see  Philip  at  the 
address  which  he  has  given  in  the  letter.  Rising,  he  leaves 
the  room,  and  sets  out  at  a  rapid  pace  toward  the  Blue 
Bell,  which  is  about  a  half  mile  from  the  club-house. 

In  reply  to  his  inquiry  of  the  bar-maid,  he  is  told  that 
"  Mister  Wharton  and  his  lady  are  both  up  stairs."  He 
asks  to  be  shown  up,  and  says,  "  My  name  is  Mr.  John 
son  I"  Leading  the  way  up,  she  announces,  "  Mr.  John 
son,  sir;"  and  Wharton  enters.  It  is  dusk,  and  the 
father  enters  unrecognized.  Philip  begs  him  to  be  seated? 
and  asks  his  acceptance  of  a  glass  of  canary,  which  he 
silently  refuses.  In  spite  of  his  chagrin,  the  father  is 
amused  at  the  part  which  he  is  performing  in  so  laugh 
able  a  play.  Before  him  is  his  son,  not  yet  sixteen,  and 
married  to  a  girl — a  year  younger  than  himself — against 
his  express  orders ;  while  he,  the  father  of  the  first,  sits 
unknown  to  them  in  the  same  room.  The  situation 
touches  his  sense  of  the  ridiculous  so  keenly  that  while 
he  can  scarcely  keep  from  laughing  outright,  he  is  at  the 
same  time  bitterly  angry  and  sore  at  their  doings. 

"  Your  business  with  me,  sir  ?  My  time  is  rather  occu 
pied,  at  present,  with  matters  of  pressing  importance !" 

"  Oh,  well !  if  it  is  of  very  pressing  importance, 
Master  Philip,  I  will  call  at  your  convenience !"  cries  my 
lord,  in  loud,  mocking  tones,  that  make  Margery  ejaculate 
a  little  shriek  of  terror  and  even  force  his  son  to  turn 
pale.  Although  Philip  had  in  a  manner  prepared  him- 


108  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

self  for  a  meeting,  still  his  father's  sudden  appearance 
takes  him  aback,  for  he  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
the  identity  of  his  guest  when  he  entered,  and  he  is  struck 
dumb. 

"  So  I  Philip !  you  are  married,  eh?  It  was  unkind  of 
you  not  to  let  me  know  about  your  intentions.  I  would 
have  taken  great  delight  in  giving  away  the  bride  I 
I — "  Feeling  that  his  anger  is  fast  gaining  the  mastery, 
he  stops  for  a  moment,  and  resumes  in  graver,  sterner 
tones:  "Master  Philip,  for  the  present  you  had  better 
remain  in  London,  and  I  think — as  no  doubt  you  will 
agree  with  me  on  consideration — that  'your  wife'  had 
better  return  to  Buck's  for  a  short  time.  Think  on  what 
I  have  said.  If  you  would  like  to  hear  my  reasons  for 
my  wishes,  come  to  that  address !"  giving  him  a  card  with 
the  words,  "  Marquis  of  Wharton,  Kitcat  Club,  Fountain 
Tavern,  Strand,"  scrawled  on  it ;  he  leaves  the  room  with 
out  another  word,  and  repairs  to  the  club-room  to  spend 
the  night  in  drinking  and  gaming. 


OE,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  109 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Omnia  vincit  amor ;  et  nos  cedamus  amori — ? 

VlBGIL. 

As  his  father's  footsteps  die  away  up  the  street, 
Philip  exclaims  to  Margery,  "  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  all 
would  be  right  ?  See !  my  father  is  now  appeased,  and 
all  that  remains  is  for  the  General  to  follow  in  his  steps  ; 
then  we  can  return  to  Buck's  and  live  in  happiness !" 

Margery  replies,  "  My  own  Philip,  I  mistrust  his  lord 
ship  !  Forgive  me  for  the  words  1  But  he  looked  so 
stern  and  cold ;  and  did  you  notice  ?  He  said  never  a 
word  to  me ;"  and  her  eyes  fill  with  tears  of  wounded 
sensibility. 

Her  emotion  affects  him,  and  he  replies  warmly,  "  What 
need  we  care,  Margery,  if  all  the  world  forsake  us  ?  We 
have  each  other.  Now  listen  to  my  programme.  I  will 
to  my  father,  and  hear  what  he  advises.  If  his  advice 
chimes  with  our  wishes,  we  will  obey  him.  If  it  does  not, 
we  can — " 

He  stops  to  consider  on  what  they  will  do,  but  appa 
rently  comes  to  no  definite  conclusion,  for  he  says  no 
more  on  the  subject,  but  proposes  that  they  go  io  the 
theatre,  a  proposition  to  which  she  gladly  assents ;  and 
so,  instead  of  discussing  a  disagreeable  subject,  they  go 
to  Drury  Lane  to  see  the  mimic  heroes  and  heroines, 
kings  and  queens  strut  their  hour  on  the  Thespian  boards. 
•  Margery  is  both  pleased  and  shocked  at  the  play — 
pleased  by  the  tender  romance,  the  deep  passion  and 
gorgeous  paraphernalia  of  the  loving  heroine  and  hero ; 
10 


110  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

and  shocked  by  the  coarse  language  and  free  jests  of 
some  of  the  performers,  part  of  which  she  cannot  fail  to 
understand ;  and  not  being  accustomed  to  them,  like  the 
regular  habitues,  her  scarlet  cheeks  attest  her  wounded 
modesty  at  each  fresh  allusion,  until  she  begins  to  attract 
the  attention  of  some  of  the  blase  dames  sitting  near 
them,  who  are  patched,  powdered,  and  scented  to  the 
last  degree.  Philip  enjoys  it  all  with  infinite  gusto,  and 
his  appreciative  laugh  sounds  again  and  again  at  the 
repetition  of  every  spicy  saying  or  highly-flavored  allusion. 
He  is  charmed  with  this  first  glimpse  of  London  life,  and 
determines  to  see  it  more  fully  ere  long.  The  play  is 
Nick  Howe's  "  Fair  Penitent,"  and  the  character  of 
Lothario — Richardson's  "  Lovelace" — pleases  him  im 
mensely,  while  Margery's  sympathies  are  exclusively 
enlisted  in  favor  of  the  ruined  Calista. 

After  they  have  returned  to  their  room  at  the  Blue 
Bell,  and  as  they  are  eating  a  light  supper,  Philip  says, 
"  Sweetheart,  I  will  see  my  lordly  father  to-morrow  and 
arrive  at  a  full  understanding  as  regards  his  position 
towards  us." 

Margery  replies  in  an  anxious  manner,  "  Do  not  anger 
him,  Philip  dear,  or  speak  too  haughtily ;  for  until  we 
are  all  friends  again,  I  shall  feel  unhappy,  for  I  have  been 
the  cause  of  all  this  trouble." 

He  replies,  "  Tut-tut ;  if  you  value  my  love,  dearie, 
never  say  another  word  about  such  absurdities !  Why, 
what  would  have  become  of  me  if  you  had  not  been  my 
own  true  love,  when  I  begged  you  to  fly  with  me  and  be 
my  wife  ?  And  never  was  I  so  happy  as  when  we  were 
joined  forever  by  that  drunken,  tattered  Fleet  parson. 
My  benediction  on  him,  if  it  will  do  him  any  good! 

"  And  the  best  and  the  worst  of  this  is 

That"neither  is  most  to  blame — " 
*  *  *  *  *  * 


OR,    PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  Ill 

The  next  morning  Philip  attires  himself  in  his  azure 
velvet  suit,  and  dons  his  drooping  hat — the  one  whose 
long  pearl  plumes  dangle  on  his  shoulder — and  buckles 
his  jingling  spurs  on  his  square-toed  shoes ;  then  sling 
ing  his  rapier  on  his  thigh,  he  helps  Margery  into  the 
chair  which  waits  for  them,  and  finally  enters  himself. 
In  a  short  time  they  arrive  at  the  Fountain  Tavern,  and 
are  accosted  by  Kit,  who  looks  admiringly  at  the  hand 
some  boy,  and  bows  deeply  as  he  enters  the  door. 

Says  Philip,  "  Is  my  Lord  "Wharton  to  be  seen  ?" 

Kit  rejoins,  "  Yes,  my  lord ;  his  lordship  instructed 
me  to  send  you  up  to  him  as  soon  as  you  came." 

Philip  is  ushered  up  stairs,  and  directly  finds  himself 
in  the  room  which  he  has  so  often  heard  about  as  the 
sanctum  of  wits,  beaux,  and  statesmen.  His  father,  who 
is  writing  at  a  low  table  in  a  corner  by  the  fire,  does  not 
rise,  but  bids  him  "  Good  morning"  in  a  curt  tone,  and 
waves  him  to  a  seat,  but  Philip's  gorge  rising  at  the  au 
thoritative  gesture,  he  declines  the  silent  command,  and 
lounges  carelessly  around  the  room.  He  admires  Knel- 
ler's  beauties,  looks  at  the  engraved  goblets,  and  in 
wardly  sneers  at  the  emblems  of  whiggery  decorating  the 
walls,  ceiling,  and  the  tables.  On  a  small  card  table  which 
stands  beneath  Anne's  portrait,  is  a  glass  case,  contain 
ing  a  lock  of  dark,  wiry  hair;  below  it  is  a  placard  on 
which  is  written 

"  A  look  of  hair  from  the  head  of  his  most  gracious  majesty 
KING  WILLIAM  III." 

A  profane  idea  strikes  him  to  raise  the  case,  and  make 
some  ridiculous  alteration  in  the  lettering  of  the  placard, 
or  to  filch  the  lock,  or  to  do  something  irreverent  to  it, 
for  he  hates  the  memory  of  the  taciturn,  phlegmatic 
"William  ;  but  a  side  glance  at  his  father,  who  has  been 
watching  his  movements,  at  once  dispels  all  thoughts  of 
his  intentions  ;  still,  even  with  his  keen  eyes  on*  him, 


112  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

Philip  curls  his  lips  scornfully,  and  mutters,  loud  enough 
to  be  heard,  "Pah!  the  big-breeched  Dutchman."  My 
lord's  eyes  blaze,  and  his  brow  contracts,  as  he  catches 
this  loyal  exclamation  ;  but  he  says  nothing,  and  resumes 
his  writing. 

Philip  waxes  restless  and  impatient,  and  at  last  says 
testily,  "My  lord,  tempus  fugit!  and,  under  favor,  I 
would  like  to  finish  my  business,  if  you  are  at  liberty." 

The  cold,  cynical  tone  in  which  Philip  speaks,  cuts 
Wharton  to  the  quick,  and  he  looks  at  him,  and  replies 
in  an  injured  manner,  "  My  son,  I  will  not  keep  you  very 
long  with  one  you  seem  to  hate  so  much !" 

As  Philip  meets  his  gaze,  he  feels  for  the  first  time 
contrite  and  repentant,  and  suddenly  determines  to  be  in 
future  a  better  son,  and  obey  his  father  in  all  that 
he  asks ;  he  discovers  also  that  he  is  loved  with  all  a 
parent's  love,  more,  far  more  than  he  deserves.  He  ex 
claims,  in  a  thick  voice,  "  Father,  you  can  trust  me  in 
future  !  Be  a  friend  to  my  Margery,  and  do  with  me  as 
you  will ;"  and  extends  his  hand.  His  father  presses  it 
in  his  with  a  cordial  grasp,  and  his  eyes  grow  brighter  as 
he  exclaims  :  "  Let  bygones  be  bygones,  Philip  ;  and  if 
you  obey  me  in  all  things  as  you  have  promised  you  will, 
we  can  once  more  live  happily  together !" 

After  a  short  conversation,  Philip  asks,  with  some 
hesitation,  "  What  do  you  advise  us  to  do  under  these 
circumstances  ?" 

He  replies,  "  Philip,  I  still  think  it  better  that  Mar 
gery  should  return  home,  and  yourself  also,  in  order 
to  explain  matters  there.  After  that,  return  to  me  at 
once,  and  we  will  discuss  your  future  travels,  for  you 
know  as  well  as  myself  that  it  is  necessary  to  the  educa 
tion  of  a  gentleman  that  he  should  be  thoroughly  ac 
quainted  with  foreign  manners  and  usages,  and  also  be 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE    OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  113 

somewhat  familiar  with  their  politics,  all  of  which  enable 
a  man  to  bear  himself  properly  in  the  eyes  of  the  world." 

Here  Philip  smiles,  and  thinks  to  himself  that  he  is  a 
master  of  that  art,  at  any  rate. 

"  And  when  you  have  been  away  a  year  or  two,  you 
will  welcome  Margery  with  the  greater  fervor  for  your 
long  absence  from  her !" 

Philip  looks  a  little  gloomy  and  doubtful  at  this,  which 
his  lordship  noticing,  adds,  in  a  matter-of-course  manner, 
"  If  you  find  that  she  is  really  essential  to  your  happi 
ness,  after  a  trial  of  a  month  or  so  in  Paris  and  the  Low 
Countries,  you  can  easily  write  home,  and  I  will  send  her 
on  to  you !" 

With  his  usual  prescience,  Lord  Wharton  sees  that  in 
time  Philip's  affection  will  cool,  and  he  is  sure  that  when 
his  son  is  surrounded  by  the  frail  beauties  of  the  conti 
nental  cities,  his  fond  recollections  of  Margery  will  be 
effaced  by  their  allurements  and  their  artful  tongues,  for 
he  greatly  fears  that  Margery  will  strengthen  his  Tory 
proclivities,  in  her  romantic,  womanish  sympathy  for  the 
Pretender,  and  he  determines  to  strain  every  nerve  to 
make  him  a  staunch  Whig  and  a  Protestant,  and  for  that 
purpose  he  intends  to  look  about  him  for  some  one  who 
will  be  able  to  control  him  and  instil  into  him  the  good 
seed  that  will  ripen  to  the  advantage  of  the  Whig  party. 

Philip,  finally  overcome  by  his  father's  arguments, 
promises  to  do  as  he  wishes  in  all  things,  with  the  pro 
viso,  that  his  travels  shall  not  begin  for  a  couple  of 
months,  and  that  Margery  shall  stay  with  him  in  Lon 
don.  Wharton  gladly  acquiesces  in  this  plan,  for  the 
longer  the  young  couple  are  together  the  more  the  de 
fects  they  will  find  in  each  other — a  knowledge  which  may 
produce  a  mutual  satiety  and  dissatisfaction  between 
them  I  Moreover,  he  can  regulate  their  domestic  life  to 
a  certain  extent,  and  he  sees  a  very  easy  way  of  creating 

10* 


114  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

a  bad  feeling  between  them,  although  at  the  same  time 
his  scheme  will  certainly  do  Philip  a  deal  of  harm.  But 
he  consoles  himself  with  the  Jesuitical  maxim,  "  The  end 
justifies  the  means."  A  short  outline  of  his  plan  may 
not  be  unacceptable. 

There  are  in  London  two  or  three  notorious  societies 
of  demoralized  young  scapegraces,  who  consider  that 
ruining  a  woman  and  then  running  her  husband  or  lover 
through  the  body  for  his  insolence  in  interfering,  is  quite 
a  laudable  action  ;  and  boast  of  their  shamelessness  and 
profligacy  as  if  they  are  cardinal  virtues ;  and  the  way 
in  which  they  make  the  night  hideous  with  their  ribaldry 
and  obscenity  is  a  disgrace  to  the  city.  No  man  is  safe 
from  their  skilful  rapiers ;  no  woman  safe  from  their 
wiles  or  violence.  They  designate  themselves  Mohocks 
or  Spitfires,  and  are  the  scourge  of  London's  honest 
cits,  who  curse  and  fear  them.  These  patrician  bravos 
stab  a  man  to  death  in  the  most  gentlemanly  manner ; 
and  then,  if  the  hue  and  cry  become  dangerous,  they  find 
a  refuge  in  Thieves'  Sanctuary,  and  laugh  at  the  puny 
efforts  of  the  law  to  apprehend  them. 

It  is  into  this  reckless  society  that  Wharton  deter 
mines  to  throw  his  son,  in  order  that  ill-feelings  may 
arise  between  him  and  his  wife,  for  Margery  will  naturally 
feel  aggrieved  at  the  amours,  intrigues,  and  late  hours 
which  Philip  will  be,  in  a  measure,  forced  into  in  such 
company,  and  will  remonstrate  with  him.  The  result  is 
plain  to  him.  Philip's  love  will  fade  away  and  with  it 
the  influence  of  his  wife.  Thus,  in  ^i  short  month,  he 
may  gain  more  power  over  his  son  than  he  has  ever  had 
before.  My  lord,  be  it  remembered,  is  no  great  enemy 
to  the  Mohocks,  for  among  them  are  many  men  of  high 
birth  and  great  wealth. 

So  his  father  kindly  agrees  to  all  his  son  says ;  and 
it  is  arranged  that  in  a  month's  time,  Philip  will  leave 


OE,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  115 

England  with  a  tutor  who  is  to  be  selected  by  his  father. 
Wharton  rises  and  embraces  him,  and  bids  him  adieu 
with  an  apology  for  the  state  affairs  that  prevent  him 
from  indulging  in  a  longer  conversation. 

Philip  tells  Margery  of  the  result,  while  they  are 
riding  home,  and  she  cries  bitterly  when  she  learns  that 
their  honeymoon  is  to  be  so  short.  He  agrees  with  her 
that  it  will  be  "vastly  unpleasant,"  and  continues,  "but 
you  know  I  intend  to  send  for  you  at  the  end  of  a 
month  I"  This  communication  comforts  her  a  little,  and 
she  converses  in  more  cheerful  tones  about  the  future, 
and  is  pleased  bej-ond  expression  at  his  lordship's  re 
conciliation. 

As  Philip  draws  her  nearer  to  him  and  looks  tenderly  in 
her  pure  eyes,  he  says,  "  Wifie,  he  tells  me  that  whilst  I 
remain  in  London,  he  wishes  me  to  associate  for  a  time 
with  a  party  of  gentlemen  who  can  enlighten  me  on  many 
matters,  which  are  essential  for  me  to  know  regarding 
city  life;  for  you  know  that  I  am  a  trifle  ignorant  on 
some  points !"  Here  she  looks  at  him  with  a  smile,  as 
though  to  deny  such  a  disparaging  statement ;  but  he 
continues,  "  This  may  take  me  away  from  you  a  little ; 
but  for  both  our  sakes  I  must  learn  the  properest  way 
of  holding  myself;  manners  here  are  so  different  from 
those  of  dear,  quiet  Bucks  I" 

She  acquiesces  with  a  troubled  sigh,  and  they  talk  of 
Rooksnest,  and  Elm  Avenue,  and  of  her  father,  who,  by 
the  by,  is  to  be  in  London  to-morrow — a  recollection  that 
causes  her  to  blush  even  to  her  shoulders,  which  glisten 
like  veined  Parian  under  the  soft  lace  thrown  modestly 
over  her  bosom. 


116  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Othman. — There  fled  the  guilty  soul ! 

VIII.  BARBAROSSA. 

Zanga. — Is  this  Alonzo?     Where  "s  the  haughty  mien? 
Heavens,  how  pale  ! 
And  art  them  dead  !  — 

VII.  THE  RETENGE. 

ALL  England  is  ablaze  with  the  news  of  Earl  Mar's 
"  hunting  match"  in  the  Highlands,  and  the  later  tidings 
of  the  battle  at  Dunblane,  where  he  met  with  a  check  by 
the  Duke  of  Argyle.  During  the  action,  the  right  wing 
of  the  Highlanders  had  become  so  excited  that  they 
broke  their  ranks,  and  swooped  on  Argyle's  left  wing 
with  irresistible  impetuosity ;  and  hewed  them  down  with 
deadly  two-handed  sweeps  of  their  broad  claymores  and 
their  long  Lochaber  axes,  the  while  screaming  harsh, 
Gaelic  war  cries ;  but  they  receive  a  terrible  retribution 
in  the  utter  rout  and  destruction  of  the  clans  on  the  left 
of  Mar,  who,  although  Stewarts,  Mackenzies,  and  Came- 
rons,  were  tumbled  over  like  sheep  by  Argyle's  veterans 
and  almost  to  a  man  destroyed. 

Lord  Lovat,  who  was  in  command  of  the  castle  of 
Inverness,  and  who  has  hitherto  borne  the  reputation  of 
being  a  staunch  adherent  of  the  Pretender,  has  surren 
dered  it  without  a  struggle,  and  in  England  Preston  has 
followed  suit.  It  is  the  same  Lord  Lovat  who  afterwards 
sneered,  as  he  mounted  the  scaffold'  that  expiated  his 
villanies,  "  God  save  us !  Why  should  there  be  such  a 
bustle  about  taking  off  an  old  gray  head  from  a  man  who 
cannot  get  up  three  steps  without  two  assistants  !"  And 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  117 

now  Mar's  army  begins  to  melt  away  very  perceptibly, 
for  the  scum,  which  was  ready  enough  to  side  with  a 
rising  cause,  now,  like  rats,  desert  the  sinking  ship. 
The  brave  Earl  sat  in  his  camp-tent,  and  mused  over  the 
events  of  the  last  few  days,  and  he  began  to  grow  dis 
heartened  by  his  misfortunes,  when  the  news  reached  him 
that  "King  James  III."  had  landed  at  Peterhead,  and 
was  on  his  way  to  visit  him.  His  heart  bounded  within 
him  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Thank  God  for  this  !  I  could  wish 
no  better  news,  short  of  hearing  that  he  held  his  own 
again ;"  and  the  soldier  bowed  his  head  and  wept. 

Wharton,  busier  than  ever  with  his  political  and  do 
mestic  affairs,  and  absorbed  in  his  many  schemes  and 
intrigues,  gave  never  a  thought  to  Him  who  nips  all 
intrigues,  ruins  all  schemes,  and  sends  their  fabricator  to 
his  last  account.  His  benevolent  design  of  placing  Philip 
amid  the  select  society  which  he  had  chosen  for  him,  and 
also  his  scheme  to  estrange  him  from  his  child-wife,  have 
failed,  not  because  he  lacked  either  the  will  or  the  power, 
but  because  death  struck  him  with  his  chill  arrow  and 
sent  him  unassoilzied  to  the  eternal  shades.  He  died  in 
great  agony  and  remorse  a  few  days  after  his  conference 
with  his  son :  with  friends  and  servants  about  him,  but 
neither  his  son  nor  his  wife  to  wipe  the  death-dew  from 
his  face  and  lips,  and  kiss  him  good-bye  forever.  His 
last  words  were,  "  Philip — send  him  to  me ! — my  boy  is 
— "  and  the  death  rattle  forced  him  to  finish  the  sentence 
in  heaven  or . 

Philip  is  promenading  Vauxhall's  shady  avenues  with 
Margery,  or  rather  was,  for  they  are  now  sitting  at  a 
little,  bowlegged,  rustic  table  in  one  of  the  alcoves, 
eating  cheese-cake  and  syllabub — dishes  that  are  quite 
a  la  mode.  As  Philip  is  about  to  call  for  another  plat 
ter  of  cake  and  'bub,  a  messenger  brings  the  news  of 
his  father's  death.  Margery  turns  pale,  and  looks  anx- 


118  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

iously  at  Philip,  who  seems  cool  and  collected,  and  puts 
some  few  questions  to  the  bearer  of  the  news,  and  rewards 
him  for  his  trouble.  Then  turning  to  Margery,  he  says 
gravely, ."  This  is  a  sad  ending  to  our  day's  pleasuring, 
Margery!  Let  us  go  home;"  and  they  return  to  their 
chair. 

During  the  ride  home,  he  scarcely  speaks  a  word,  and 
seems  immersed  in  thought.  Margery,  who  has  hardly 
seen  Lord  Wharton  a  do2en  times,  grieves  chiefly  for 
Philip's  sake,  for  she  thinks  that  she  appreciates  his  posi 
tion  by  changing  places  with  him  and  by  thinking  of  her 
own  father  as  dead  instead  of  Philip's ;  and  tears  burst 
from  her  eyes  at  the  thought. 

Philip  now  hurries  to  the  side  of  his  dead  father,  and 
looks  sadly  on  all  that  remains  of  the  great  Whig  states 
man.  He  drops  a  great  tear  on  his  brow,  which  courses 
slowly  adown  his  cheek,  enters  his  open  lips,  and  rests 
between  them  on  his  white,  clenched  teeth,  quivers  there 
an  instant,  and  disappears. 

"Egad!"  he  exclaims,  "it  had  pleased  me  better  to 
see  you  once  more  ere  you  had  left  me  forever;  how 
ever,  God  or  the  Devil  hath  decreed  otherwise,  and 
faith  I  '11  not  repine  at  the  decree,  whoever  put  it  forth. 
Now  I  am  my  own  master,  Philip,  Earl  of  R.athfarnham 
and  Marquis  of  Catherlough  !  but  not  as  yet  First  Lord 
of  the  Treasury;"  and  an  exultant  smile  crosses  his 
boyish  face.  Anon  thoughts  of  his  dead  father  rise 
in  his  mind.  Kneeling  down  by  the  bedside,  he  grasps 
his  cold,  right  hand,  and  breathes  a  prayer  to  Heaven ! 
after  which  he  steps  softly  out  and  leads  Margery  in  to 
look  on  the  man  who  once  conspired  so  cruelty  against 
her  happiness.  But  all  is  forgotten  in  the  dread  Pre 
sence  ;  leaning  over  the  corpse  she  kisses  his  cold  fore 
head,  and  breathes  a  heartfelt  prayer  for  the  future  sal 
vation  of  her  husband's  father. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHABTON'S   CAREER.  119 

Philip  leads  Margery  out  again,  and  closes  the  door 
after  her.  He  asks  of  the  servants,  whom  he  dismissed 
at  his  entrance,  and  whom  he  now  recalls  to  renew  their 
care  of  the  body,  whether  his  lordship  left  any  orders  for 
him ;  whereupon  his  former  secretary  replies,  "  No,  my 
lord,  his  lordship  died  so  suddenly  that  he  had  no  time 
to  say  anything,  except  to  call  on  your  name !" 

"  Say  you  so  ?"  he  replies  ;  "  I  did  not  think  his  death 
had  been  so  sudden— -that  is  all!"  Leaving  the  death 
chamber,  he  goes  to  Margery,  to  whom  he  says,  "  I  must 
send  the  sad  intelligence  to  my  mother  at  once,  and  she 
can  be  here  by  to-morrow  evening." 

So  saying,  he  sits  down  and  hastily  scrawls  a  letter 
to  her,  signing  it  "  Wharton,  Earl  of  Rathfarnham  and 
Marquis  of  Catherlough,"  but,  on  second  thought,  runs 
his  quill  through  them  and  blots  them  out ;  and  the 
death-summons  goes  post-haste  to  Bucks. 


120  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

' '  From  the  tower, 

Heavy,  slow, 
Tolls  the  fun'ral 

Note  of  wo. 

Sad  and  solemn,  with  its  knell  attending 
Some  new  wand'rer,  on  the  last  way  wending." 

SONG  OF  THE  BELL. 

"  REBECK  me  !"  growls  Shem,  "  I  want  ye  to  do  as  ye 
like,  Brad,  if  ye  will  get  wedded  till  her;  I  canna  say  but 
I  think  Meg's  a  good  lass.  Debbie  can  gie  ye  pots  an' 
pans  for  your  kitchen,  an'  ye  can  hae  my  place  as  head 
falconer ! — a  varra  guid  start  for  a  young  couple ;  but  ye 
••mind  I  think  ye  're  a  fuil  a'  the  same  for  bein'  in  such  a 
hurry  to  leave  home  so  airly ;  but  o'  coorse  ye  do  as  ye 
please.  Ye  hae  my  consent,  an'  your  mither's,  I  knaw, 
wull  not  be  denied.  She  war  aye  a  fuil  where  you  were 
concerned,  an'  in  my  mind,  aye  wull  be !" 

After  this  unusually  lengthy  peroration,  Shem  becomes 
flustered  and  slightly  shame-faced,  and  thinks  that  he  was " 
rather  maudlin  and  soft  in  talking  so  familiarly  with  his 
son  about  his  approaching  marriage  with  Meg  Busbie; 
so,  to  take  off  any  appearance  of  undue  mildness  that  he 
may  have  been  guilty  of,  he  adds,  grumly,  "  An'  a  pest 
on  the  fuilish  pair  o'  ye  1" — an  observation  which  I  firmly 
believe  he  repents  of  as  soon  as  he  makes,  for  he  kicks 
the  dog  away  from  his  seat,  and  recalls  her  with  a  low, 
coaxing  "  Down,  my  brach  1  down,"  and  she  crouches 
again  and  licks  the  boot  that  kicked  her. 

Brad,  who  looks  cheerful  and  handsome  in  his  best 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  121 

suit,  smiles  as  he  watches  his  father's  manoeuvres,  and 
finally  cries,  "  Well,  good-bye,  dad !  I  will  be  in  wi'  Meg- 
gie.  If  you  want  me,  sound  the  horn,  and  I  will  return 
at  once ;"  and,  with  a  step  as  light  and  springy  as  a 
panther,  he  steps  out  on  the  greensward  in  all  the  blithe- 
someness  of  a  pure  conscience  and  requited  love.  He 
has  put  the  momentous  question  to  Meggie,  and  after  a 
dozen  different  refusals — according  to  the  general  custom 
of  women  in  such  cases,  who  half  fret  a  man's  life  out  in 
order  to  experience  the  keen,  trembling  delight  of  hearing 
and  refusing  an  offer  of  marriage  as  many  times  as  pos 
sible — has  been  accepted,  all  the  preparations  have  been 
made,  and  the  wedding  is  to  take  place  this  very  day. 

He  strikes  off  in  the  direction  of  Dame  Busbie's  cottage, 
and  is  running  like  one  of  the  wild  red  deer  which  he  has 
so  often  shot,  when  the  deep- voiced  bell  in  the  round-tower 
clangs  an  alarming  summons  far  and  near,  and  he  stops 
and  stands  as  still  as  a  statue.  Clang !  Clang ! !  Clang ! ! ! 
boom  out  the  slow  and  measured  strokes.  Brad  knows 
that  the  large  bell  is  never  rung  except  at  a  birth,  death, 
or  marriage  of  some  of  the  family,  and  his  heart  is  full 
of  a  vague,  uneasy  sensation,  as  of  some  impending  danger. 

Clang!  Clang.!!  Clang! !  L 

Quickly  retracing  his  steps,  he  looks  into  the  lodge ; 
it  is  empty.  Now  he  catches  a  faint,  confused  murmur 
like  the  sound  of  summer  waves  on  the  seashore,  or 
of  many  people  whispering  or  talking  in  a  low  voice ! 
Then  a  long,  woman's  wail  comes  to  his  ears  from  the 
direction  of  the  castle,  thither  he  runs  with  all  his 
speed,  and  there  hears  the  story  of  my  lord's  death  told 
in  hurried,  awe-stricken  tones.  The  women  folk  are  crying, 
and  the  men  are  grave  and  sorrowful,  for  despite  his 
wickedness  and  his  profligacy,  Wharton  was  a  kind,  good- 
humored  master  to  them  all ;  and  if  some  of  them  could 
recollect  a  daughter  or  a  sister  who  owed  her  shame  to 
11 


122  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

him,  the  recollection  is  drowned  in  pity  for  his  fate: 
dying  alone  in  London,  neither  his  wife  nor  his  son  to 
close  his  eyes  and  pray  with  him  for  his  future  redemption. 

When  the  news  was  conveyed  to  her  ladyship,  she  had 
fallen  into  strong  convulsions,  and  was  carried  stiff  and 
senseless  to  her  bed. 

Most  of  those  who  are  assembled  before  the  castle  are 
attired  in  their  gayest  dresses  and  their  chapel-going 
clothes  in  honor  of  Brad's  wedding,  for  he  is  a  great 
favorite  amongst  them  on  account  of  his  good  nature  and 
his  generosity.  But  here  a  lad  and  there  a  lass  can  be 
seen  unpinning  a  gay  rosette  or  a  fluttering  ribbon  and 
then  hiding  it  from  view  in  a  pocket  or  a  bosom,  for 
they  all  know  that  the  wedding  will  not  take  place  this 
day.  As  for  poor  Brad!  he  is  a  double  mourner,  for 
at  one  blow  he  loses  a  good  master  and  an  expectant 
bride. 

Mistress  Meggie  is  here  in  all  her  wedding  finery,  her 
eyes  are  full  of  tears  and  her  lip  trembles  pitifully — 
whether  most  at  Lord  Wharton's  death,  or  the  stoppage 
of  her  marriage,  I  know  not.  Brad  glides  to  her  side,  and, 
unobserved  by  the  crowd,  puts  his  arm  around  her  trim 
waist  and  presses  her  side  sympathizingly.  She  seems 
to  take  little  heed  of  his  actions,  and  does  not  offer  the 
slightest  resistance  to  his  caresses,  but  exclaims  in  a 
low,  half-crying  voice,  "  Oh,  Brad,  how  unlucky  I  I  am 
sure  we  will  never  be  married  now  ;  it  is  so  unlucky  for 
a  death  to  come  betwixt  a  marriage  1" 

"  Don't  say  so,  Meg !"  he  exclaims.  "  It  makes  my 
heart  ache." 

Meg  replies,  affectionately,  "  Well,  Brad,  I  winnsj  say 
it,  then,  but  I  am  afeared  sometimes  that  I  might  lose 
you — dearie  1" 

His  hands  clasp  more  tightly  around  her  waist,  and 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  123 

he  feels  his  heart  grow  bigger  and  bigger  in  his  throat, 
until  it  chokes  his  utterance  so  much  that  like  a  sensible 
lad  he  deems  silence  better  than  speech,  but  looks  vol 
umes  out  of  his  sunny,  hazel  eyes,  and  she  seems  satis 
fied. 

"  "Well,"  he  thinks  to  himself,  "  if  our  love  is  enough 
for  man  and  wife,  it  will  keep  a  fortnight." 

Dame  Throck,  who  is  talking  .to  Betty,  says,  "  Yes, 
an'  I  recollect  that  yest're'en'  a  crow  flew  three  times 
aroun'  the  tower,  an'  then  pecked  for  nigh  ten  minutes 
agan  the  rim  o'  the  bell.  I  knew  sumraut  evil  would 
befa'  the  house  afore  the  year  war'  out !"  and  the  by 
standers  shiver  as  they  listen  to  her  doleful  tale.  "  TJgh, 
I  feel  a  grue,"  says  one  impressionable  gossip.  Another 
adds,  "  I  knew  his  lordship  war  goin'  to  happen  summut, 
for  I  dreamed  o'  a  weddin'  last  neet,  an'  that  is  allus  a 
sure  sign  o'  evil."  So  they  go  on. 

Shem,  who  is  in  a  rather  isolated  position,  calls  Brad 
and  Meg  to  him,  and  says,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Of  coorse  the 
weddin'  will  no  come  off  the  day;  it  is  a  sad  thing 
that  prevents  it ;  but  the  Lord  does  it  a'  for  the  best ;" 
and  he  turns  away  to  hide  his  emotion  by  scowling 
fiercely  at  two  little  children  who  look  up  at  him  with 
streaming  eyes,  crying  because  others  cry,  and  without 
the  remotest  idea  of  the  reason  of  their  grief. 

Clang  I  clang  1  clang ! 

"Heavy,  slow 
Tolls  the  fun'ral 
Note  of  woe." 

Lady  Wharton  has  lain  for  two  whole  hours,  scarcely 
breathing,  and  more  dead  than  alive.  When  she  does 
awake  it  is  to  realize  to  the  fullest  extent  her  misery  and 
her  loss,  while  her  thoughts  revert  to  Philip  whom  she 
has  not  seen  since  his  mad  escapade,  and  she  trembles  as 
she  wonders  whether  she  will  be  able  to  control  him  now 


124  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

that  her  husband  is  no  more  ;  she  feels  that  she  will  not, 
and  is  sick  at  heart. 

A  servant  enters,  who  exclaims,  "  My  lady,  General 
Holmes  wishes  to  see  you  ?-" 

She  replies,  "Admit  him!  this  is  no  time  for  cere 
mony  !"  And  she  orders  her  maid  to  arrange  the  pil 
lows  behind  her  so  that  she  can  recline  in  a  sitting  posi 
tion. 

The  General  enters  with  a  soft  step,  and  a  sorrowful 
expression  smooths  his  worn  face.  He  salutes  her  re 
spectfully,  and  says,  "  My  lady,  words  are  useless.  That 
I  deplore  his  loss,  you  must  know,  particularly  at  this 
time,  when  we  might  have  been  drawn  nearer  together  in 
friendship  and  interest." 

She  does  not  speak,  for  her  heart  is  too  full  for  speech, 
and  she  presses  his  hand  thankfully.  He  gulps  down  an 
obstruction  in  his  throat,  and  busies  himself  in  arranging 
his  waistcoat,  whose  creases  seem  to  displease  him,  to 
judge  by  the  pertinacity  which  he  exhibits  in  smoothing 
it  and  pulling  it  awry.  Now  he  plucks  at  his  mous 
taches,  bites  them  abstractedly,  and  at  last  he  blurts 
out,  with  a  reddening  face,  "  My  lady,  you  are  not  angry 
at  Margery  ?" 

"  No,  General,"  she  replies,  plaintively,  "  though  I 
opposed  the  match,  yet,  as  it  is  now  accomplished,  I  say 
with  all  my  heart,  God  bless  them  and  keep  them  both 
happy,  for  Margery  is  a  sweet,  lovable  girl,  and  was  al 
ways  vastly  to  my  liking  ;  I  hope  and  trust  that  Philip 
will  be  steady  and  keep  out  of  vicious  company."  And 
she  sighs  as  she  finishes. 

"  You  are  going  to  London,  my  lady  ?" 

She  replies,  "  Yes,  General ;  and  can  I  venture  to  ask 
you  to  accompany  me  ?  Will  it  put  you  to  much  incon 
venience?" 

He  replies  energetically,  "  M}T  lady,  there  is  nothing  I 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON's   CAREER.  125 

would  prize  more  than  to  have  the  honor  of  attending 
your  ladyship  to  London  or  anywhere  else!" 

He  is  delighted  at  the  request  she  has  preferred,  and 
feels  himself  a  greater  man  now  that  her  ladyship  re 
poses  so  much  confidence  in  him  as  to  desire  him  to  ac 
company  her  on  her  journey. 

She  says,  "  We  will  set  out  to-morrow,  then,  if  I  can 
leave  my  room,  and — Oh,  Tom,"  she  cries  as  her  thoughts 
revert  to  her  lonely  position,  "  why  did  you  die  ?  I  feel 
so  desolate  now  that  both  my  husband  and  my  son  have 
left  me  1" 

Holmes,  unused  to  such  scenes,  does  his  best  to  con 
sole  her,  but  feels  his  utter  inability  to  cope  with  a  dis 
tressed  woman.  "My  lady,  moderate  your  grief;  it  is 
useless ;  you  cannot  bring  him  to  life  again !  Egad, 
though,  that  is  the  very  reason  that  you  do  grieve !  But, 
egad,  I  '11  stop  talking,  for  I  only  make  matters  worse. 
It  was  ever  a  hopeless  job  to  console  a  woman!" 

She  smiles  faintly  as  she  notices  his  evident  embar 
rassment,  and  dismisses  him  by  saying,  "  Well,  General, 
I  will  not  detain  you  any  longer.  If  I  am  able  to  go  to 
morrow,  I  will  send  a  messenger  to  the  Grange  to  let  you 
know." 

Glad  to  escape,  the  General  bows  low,  and  leaves  her 
apartment. 

The  next  day  she  felt  well  enough  to  start,  and  in  due 
time  they  arrived  in  London  without  any  casualty. 


11* 


126  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

But  where  began  the  change  ;  and  what's  my  crime? 
The  wretch  condemn'd,  who  has  not  been  arraign'd, 
Chafes  at  his  sentence.     Shall  I  unsustain'd, 
Drag  on  love's  nerveless  body  through  all  time? 
I  must  have  slept,  since  now  I  wake.     Prepare, 
You  lovers,  to  know  love  a  thing  of  moods  ; 
Not  like  hard  life,  of  law. 

GEO.  MEREDITH. 

THEY  are  now  on  the  threshold  of  his  lordship's  town- 
house,  and  Lady  Wharton  is  so  weak  and  agitated  that 
the  General  is  forced  to  put  his  arm  around  her  to 
keep  her  from  falling  to  the  ground.  They  are  quickly 
announced  by  the  attentive  hall-porter,  and  in  a  moment 
she  is  in  Philip's  arms,  and  is  crying  bitterly.  She  is 
too  overcome  to  speak  for  a  time,  and  can  do  nothing 
but  hold  Philip  around  the  neck  and  sob  and  sigh 
piteousl}7. 

Margery's  little  hands  are  both  clasped  in  her  father's 
camp-hardened  palm,  while  she  looks  shyly  at  my  lady, 
who,  noticing  her  hesitancy,  exclaims  with  an  emphasis 
which  shows  that  she  appreciates  her  feelings:  "My 
daughter,  come  to  a  mother's  arms!"  and  she  turns  to 
Margery  with  a  loving  light  beaming  in  her  saddened 
eyes.  Margery,  overjoyed  at  her  words,  embraces  her 
fervidly,  and  the  aged  dame  and  the  budding  woman  are 
friends  through  the  medium  of  sorrow  and  joy — sorrow, 
keen  and  piercing  for  a  husband's  and  a  father's  loss ; 
joy  for  a  disobedient  son's  return. 

Her  Iad3rship  finally  performs  the  sad,  painful  duty  of 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WIIARTON'S   CAREER.  127 

looking  on  the  inanimate  form  of  her  departed  husband, 
after  which  she  retires  to  her  room,  heartsore  and 
fatigued,  to  pray  to  the  Almighty  to  give  her  strength 
enough  to  support  her  great  affliction. 

Philip,  Margery  and  the  General  gather  together  to 
exchange  news  and  to  talk  of  home  and  its  familiar 
objects;  Holmes,  in  reply  to  an  observation  by  Philip,! 
says:  "No,  Philip;  I  fear  that  her  ladyship  will  not' 
long  survive  your  father's  death.  When  she  received 
the  sore  tidings,  she  was  attacked  with  strong  con 
vulsions,  and  for  over  two  hours  she  was  not  expected 
to  live!" 

Philip  whitens  with  fear  at  the  prospect  of  such  an 
event,  and  replies  in  a  shaken  voice,  "  God  help  me  if  she 
dies  too  1  Sometimes  I  think  that  I  have  been  the  cause 
of  his  death,  and  the  thought  weighs  heavy  on  me.  My 
mother  must  not  die  yet ;  I  cannot  bear  it  until  I  have 
shown  her  how  much  I  regret  my  wild  conduct  and  reck 
less  behavior  while  he  was  living!" 

Margery,  frightened  at  his  appearance,  moves  closer  to 
him,  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm  with  a  look  of  sym 
pathy;  but  turning  his  face  away  from  her,  he  gently 
removes  her  hand,  and  a  curious  expression  of  suppressed 
dislike  momentarily  disfigures  his  features.  She  notes  the 
gesture  with  love's  keen  eyes,  and  a  heart  sickness  comes 
over  her  as  she  tries  to  think  that  she  must  have  been 
mistaken  in  imagining  that  he  looked  on  her  with  aver 
sion.  Alas !  the  first  cloud  has  come  between  them — a 
cloud  from  which  peers  a  dead  father's  look  of  upbraiding 
and  reproach.  The  General  has  watched  Philip's  beha 
vior,  and  too  truly  reads  its  meaning ;  but  keeping  his 
thoughts  to  himself,  he  draws  Margery  to  his  side,  and 
casts  a  searching  side  glance  on  her  face,  which  is  troubled 
and  anxious ;  and  they  are  all  silent,  and  not  a  sound  is 


128  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

heard  but  the  slow,  monotonous  tick-tack  of  the  old  clock 
which  stands  on  the  landing  outside. 

Philip,  anxious  to  break  the  dreary  silence,  which 
begins  to  harass  him  with  its  painful  quietude,  asks,  in  an 
uninterested  voice,  "  General,  has  Brad  Throck  married 
Meg  yet?  They  were  to  be  united  a  week  ago — so  I 
understood." 

Holmes  answers  in  as  vacuous  a  manner,  "  No,  they 
were  going  to  be  married  the  day  that  we  received  the 
news  of  his  death,  which  sad  event,  of  course,  put  an  end 
to  their  festivities." 

"  Yes,"  he  replies ;  and  again  there  is  dreary  silence. 

Margery  once  more  shrinking  close  to  Philip,  impul 
sively  throws  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  says,  while 
the  tears  rain  down  her  cheeks,  "  Philip,  darling !  do  not 
look  so  strange  at  me.  I  know  that  your  heart  must 
ache.  Philip,  have  I  done  aught  to  offend  you  ?  I — " 

"  Margery,"  he  replies  regretfully,  "  you  are  too  good 
for  me.  I  feel  hard  and  cruel,  now ;  yet  withal  I  am  sad 
and  conscience-stricken." 

Her  quick  perception  solves  his  enigmatical  words;" 
she  turns  from  him  with  a  heart  too  full  for  speech,  and 
falls  into  her  father's  arms  with  a  low,  broken  sob,  and 
whispers,  "  Oh,  father,  he  hates  me  for  his  father's  sake  I 
Hold  me  tightly.  I  cannot  bear  to  look  him  in  the  face 
again — -he  hates  me;"  and  her  body  shivers  from  head  to 
foot. 

"  General !"  Philip  exclaims  in  a  sharp,  strained  voice, 
"  I  pray  you  excuse  my  departure.  I  have  business  out 
side  ;"  and  with  these  words  he  leaves  the  room. 

When  his  footsteps  have  died  away  in  the  distance, 
the  General  says  to  Margery,  "  My  daughter,  tell  me 
truly.  Do  you  love  Philip  as  much  now  as  you  did 
before  your  marriage  ?" 

She  replies  in  a  passionate  voice,  but  without  lifting 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  129 

her  head  from  his  breast,  "  Father,  why  do  you  ask  such 
a  question  ?  Such  love  as  mine  never  diminishes,  it 
grows  greater  by  its  food  ?" 

The  General  seems  as  if  he  would  have  answered  her, 
but  thinks  better  of  his  purpose,  and  keeps  his  words 
between  his  teeth. 

"  He  has  grown  tired  of  her — possession  has  sated 
him,  and  he  now  regrets  his  step — in  time  he  may  hate 
her !  God  help  thee,  Margery !  It  will  kill  thee.  Thou 
wert  never  made  for  rough  speech  or  cold  looks  !" 

Dra'wing  her  on  his  knee  as  in  olden  times  at  the 
Grange,  he  strokes  her  hair  and  cheeks  until  she  falls 
asleep  with  a  long,  deep  sigh ;  while  his  own  weari 
ness  produces  the  same  effect  on  him.  And  he  has  a 
dream,  and  in  his  dream  he  thinks  his  child  has  died, 
and  he  awakes  with  a  great  start,  causing  his  "  little 
girl"  to  cling  more  tightly  to  him,  and  nestle  her  bonnie 
face  closer  to  his  shaggy  beard,  while  her  rosy  lips  half 
open  as  though  she  listens  to  a  distant  sound.  The 
soul  is  freer  when  its  case  is  inert  and  asleep,  and  can 
often  foresee  events  which  are  unknown  to  the  wakened 
mind.  Does  she  foresee  her  future !  Would  it  be  better 
if  she  could  ? 

When  they  meet  at  table  in  the  morning,  Philip  is 
affable,  but  restrained,  while  the  general  conversation  is 
naturally  tinctured  with  a  grave  sadness.  He  seems  re 
gretful  for  his  treatment  of  Margery  the  previous  even 
ing,  and  is  now  devoted  and  attentive  to  her,  which 
Holmes  perceives  with  glad  feelings  and  a  relieved  mind. 
Her  ladyship  is  pallid  and  tearful,  the  consequences  of  a 
night  passed  in  sleepless  sorrow  and  uneasy  thought, 
and  she  seldom  joins  in  conversation  with  the  others. 

During  the  day  Philip  gives  orders  regarding  the 
funeral,  which  is  to  take  place  to-morrow  with  due  pomp 
and  splendor 

******* 


130  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

The  chamber  is  crowded  with  the  dead  man's  friends, 
many  of  the  mighty  ones  of  London — chiefly  members 
of  the  Whig  party,  who  come  to  have  a  last  lool^on  the 
man  who  first  in  all  England  welcomed  William  the  Third 
on  his  landing,  and  who  had  since  led  them  to  so  many 
victories  by  the  power  of  his  able  tongue,  his  subtle  rea 
soning  and  his  Ciceronian  eloquence. 

Charles  Montague,  who  will  also  be  laid  in  his  grave  ere 
the  bones  of  his  former  friend  are  bared  by  the  worms, 
stands  by  the  side  of  the  glittering  coffin,  and  says 
gravely  to  Vanbrugh,  as  though  he  feels  the  nearness 
of  his  own  dissolution,  "  I  doubt  that  I  '11  long  survive 
him ;  so,  egad,  Van !  you  may  shortly  have  the  pleasure 
of  looking  on  me,  as  I  at  present  look  on  dear,  old,  honest 
Tom." 

"  S'life,"  replies  Vanbrugh ;  "we  can  ill  afford  to  lose 
another  good  man  and  true ;  we  are  weak  enough  already. 
One  such  defection  from  our  ranks  is  enough  for  one 
while,  I  trow  I" 

Philip  entering  at  this  moment,  is  warmly  greeted 
by  the  visitors,  who  sympathize  with  him,  and  express 
their  condolences  with  his  loss  in  words  and  actions.  He 
is  dressed  in  sombre  black,  a  long  crape  veil  is  attached 
to  his  right  arm,  and  he  has  also  a  neckcloth  of  the 
same  material,  which  gives  a  pallidity  to  his  skin  that 
is  ghastly  and  startling.  His  mother,  who  walks  beside 
him,  is  covered  from  head  to  foot  in  the  trappings  of 
death,  and  tears  are  bursting  from  her  eyes.  Her  grief 
is  not  for  comfort  or  sympathy,  and  so  all  feel  with  an 
intuitive  knowledge. 

Philip  leads  her  to  her  room,  and  kisses  her  tenderly ; 
when  he  has  closed  the  door,  she  says,  in  an  anxious 
manner,  "  Philip,  dear,  for  your  own  sake  as  well  as 
mine,  avoid  those  men,  Vanbrugh  and  Lord  Halifax. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE    OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  131 

They  are  too  dissolute  and  too  old  for  one  of  your 
years." 

He  draws  himself  up  haughtily,  as  he  replies,  "  Philip 
Wharton,  though  young  in  years,  needs  not  their  adven 
titious  aid  to  make  him  all  men's  equal,  and  the  superior 
of  most." 

She  does  not  reply  to  this  outburst,  but  looks  fixedly 
at  him  for  a  minute,  and  says  sadly,  "  Good-night  Philip, 
and  God  keep  you  from  harm  !" 

Philip  bows  and  returns  at  once  to  Yanbrugh,  with 
whom  and  Halifax  he  converses  of  many  things. 

All  day  the  room  is  crowded  with  visitors  coming  and 
going.  All  day  long  the  rumbling  coaches  draw  up  be 
fore  the  door,  and  titled  dames  and  famous  men  go  and 
come. 

Margery,  who  is  with  her  father  in  a  retired  corner 
near  the  head  of  the  coffin,  surveys  with  curiosity  or 
respect  the  owners  of  the  famous  or  infamous  names  that 
are  continually  announced  in  measured  accents  by  the 
pompous,  powdered  lackey  who  keeps  out  curious  in 
truders. 

The  funeral  next  day  was  gorgeous  and  solemn ; 
plumes  waved,  horses  pranced,  sable  streamers  fluttered 
in  the  air,  and  all  the  details  and  ceremonies  that  are 
essential  to  a  noble's  funeral  were  there.  All  that  now 
remains  of  the  great  Whig  is  a  fresh,  earthy  mound  and 
an  imposing  tablet  with  its  "  Hie  jacet  Thomas  Whar 
ton",  with  a  long  array  of  virtues  which  he  never  pos 
sessed,  and  never  a  word  of  the  vices  which  he  did 
possess.  Truly,  sinners  while  we  live,  the  world,  thank 
ful  for  our  demise,  almost  canonizes  us  when  we  die. 

A  curious  incident  occurred  just  before  the  coffin  lid 
was  screwed  down,  which  I  hope  it  is  not  amiss  to  men 
tion.  Two  burly  carriers  set  their  chair  down  in  front 
of  the  door,  and  handed  out  of  it  a  lady  dressed  in  deep 


132  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

mourning.  Her  face  must  have  once  been  very  beautiful, 
but  it  had  become  wrinkled  and  disfigured  by  care  or 
trouble.  There  were  great  hollows  in  her  cheeks — caves 
wherein  lurked  despair  and  melancholy;  and  her  large 
eyes  were  wild  and  haggard.  Pushing  the  guardian 
lackey  aside,  and  walking  swiftly  down  to  the  corpse, 
she  kissed  its  pale  lips  and  laid  a  bunch  of  dusty,  withered 
violets  on  its  shroud,  she  then  left  as  silently  as  she 
came,  without  vouchsafing  a  word  to  any  one.  Her  face 
somewhat  resembled  that  of  the  girl  whom  Wharton  had 
once  met  many  years  ago — during  the  storm  of  1703! 
The  company  stared  at  her  abrupt  entrance,  and  won 
dered  at  her  singular  action,  but  no  one  interfered  with 
her  by  word  or  deed. 


OR.   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHABTON's   CAREER.          133 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  Now  is  the  time  that  rakes  their  revels  keep  ; 

Kindlers  of  riot,  eneiniea  of  sleep. 
His  scattered  pence  the  flying  \ickerflings, 

And  with  the  copper  shower  the  casement  rings. 
Who  has  not  heard  the  Scourer's  midnight  fame? 

Who  has  not  trembled  at  the  Mohock's  name? 
Was  there  a  watchman  took  his  hourly  rounds 
Safe  from  their  blows,  or  new  invented  wounds?" 

GAY'S  TRIVIA. 

"Here  is  the  devil  and  all  to  do  with  these  Mohocks!" 

SWIFT. 

ST.  DUNSTAN'S  clock  has  just  struck  one.  The  moon 
diffuses  a  glorious  light,  and  the  many-storied  houses 
throw  deep  shadows  over  the  streets.  All  is  quiet,  and 
a  solemn,  thought-inspiring  tranquillity  broods  over  the 
city,  disposing  the  mind  to  the  consideration  of  high 
and  important  topics — when  suddenly  a  loud  shout,  fol 
lowed  by  noisy  laughter  and  obscene  curses,  breaks  in 
on  the  stillness  of  the  night.  A  crowd  of  drunken, 
brawling  rufflers  sally  out  of  a  tavern,  which  is  notorious 
as  being  one  of  the  stopping  places  of  the  most  ruffianly, 
drunken,  and  cruel  of  all  associations,  the  Mohocks, 
many  of  whose  members  are  of  high  birth  and  famous  i' 
the  state,  but  whose  innate  depravity  has  reduced  them 
to  the  level  of  a  Fijian. 

These  are  the  Mohocks  who  now  desecrate  the  night's 
calm  beauty  with  their  infernal  orgies.  They  take  their 
name  from  a  tribe  of  red  men,  who  are  natives  of  the 
colonies.  Their  leader  is  invariably  the  worst  one  of 
their  worthy  company ;  his  title  is  Taw-Waw-Eben-Zan- 
12 


134  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Kaladar,  Emperor  of  the  Mohocks,  and  he  regulates 
their  actions  and  proceedings  with  absolute  powers  and 
unquestioned  authority.  They  are  nearly  all  dressed  in 
the  extreme  of  the  fashion.  Velvet  cloaks  laced  to  a 
miracle,  silken  hose,  ostentatious  ruffles,  long  plumed 
hats,  and  wide,  lace  collars  are  common  to  them  all. 
Some  hold  a  black  satin  mask  or  vizard  in  their  hands, 
and  a  few  have  them  on  their  faces.  Two  or  three  are 
flourishing  their  glittering  rapiers  above  their  heads,  and 
occasionally  pound  on  the  shutters  of  the  houses  which 
they  pass  ;  and  woe  to  the  man,  woman,  or  child  who 
dares  to  remonstrate.  They  would  be  in  imminent  peril 
of  their  lives,  for  the  crew  are  mad  drunk  and  reckless. 

The  leader,  whose  forehead  is  adorned  with  a  golden 
crescent,  which  is  gummed  to  the  skin,  lifts  his  hand  and 
at  once  there  is  comparative  silence.  "My  lords  and 
gentlemen — members  of  the  Chosen  Band !  This  night 
Philip  Wharton,  Earl  of  Rathfarnham  and  Marquis  of 
Catherlough,  a  new  member  of  our  honorable  company, 
must  exhibit  his  valor  and  dexterity  by  either  tipping 
the  lion,  or  doing  a  sweater  on  such  person  or  per 
sons  as  we  may  meet  to-night;  or,  as  in  case  pro 
vided,  pay  a  penalty  of  one  hundred  guineas.  Have  I 
said  well  ?" 

The  noisy  approval  which  greets  his  speech  shows  that 
all  are  satisfied,  and  content  to  abide  by  his  words. 

To  those  who  do  not  understand  the  terms  "  sweater" 
and  ''•  tipping  the  lion,"  I  will  venture  a  short  explanation. 
The  "  sweaters"  operate  in  parties  of  four,  five,  or  six. 
Surrounding  their  unfortunate  victim,  they  form  a  circle 
with  swords  drawn  and  pointed  toward  him.  They 
then  begin  to  prick  and  prod  him  with  the  sharp  points 
until  they  are  tired  of  the  sport,  or  until  they  think 
it  is  dangerous  to  continue  the  sport  any  longer.  "  Tip- 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S  CAREER.  135 

ping  the  lion"  means  to  slit  the  nose,  or  to  bore  out  the 
eyes  with  the  knuckles. 

Such  are  the  amusements  of  the  society  into  which 
Philip  has  been  introduced  by  Yanbrugh,  who  kindly  vol 
unteered  to  guarantee  his  character  as  a  gentleman  when 
he  proposed  him.  In  1112,  a  royal  proclamation  was 
issued  "  to  rout  the  association  and  arrest  the  members," 
but  it  was  of  no  use;  for  the  judges  who  should  have 
enforced  the  law  and  brought  the  villains  to  justice,  had 
in  many  cases,  friends  who  were  themselves  Mohocks. 
Shad  well's  observation  is  doubtless  familiar  to  you ;  but 
I  quote  it  because  it  gives  a  very  accurate  idea  of  the 
terror  which  this  club  inspired.  "A  man  cannot  go 
from  the  Rose  Tavern  to  the  Piazza  once,  but  he  must 
venture  his  life  twice." 

Philip,  reeling  and  staggering  in  drunken  uncertainty, 
replies  to  his  chiefs  address  with  grandiloquent  gestures 
and  in  a  husky  and  indistinct  voice :  "  Most  mighty  Em 
peror,  I  swear  that  the  first  human  being  who  crosses 
our  path,  6r  violates  the  air  of  Drury  Lane  with  his 
pestiferous  carcass,  shall  suffer  by  my  hands  any  penalty 
that  you  may  adjudge — demme  I"  Whirling  his  rapier, 
with  a  rapid  turn  of  his  flexible  wrist,  he  brings  it  grace 
fully  to  the  salute.  The  consummate  skill  with  which  he 
performs  this  difficult  movement  would  be  creditable  to 
a  professed  maitre  d'armes. 

"  Bravo,  egad,  well  done !"  screams  Lord  Catachresis, 
delighted  with  his  new  confrere. 

"  Hist !"  hiccups  the  Emperor,  "  I  hear  a  step.  Fall 
back,  gentlemen  1  Leave  my  lord  to  deal  with  this  daring 
invader  of  our  nocturnal  rights!" 

With  these  words  and  an  injunction  to  Philip  he 
retreats  into  the  darkness  of  a  shadowed  doorway,  the 
rest  follow  his  example  with  more  celerity,  and  noise- 
lessness  than  one  would  think  possible  in  such  a  rackety 


136  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

set ;  while  Philip  is  left  alone  to  accomplish  his  first  duty 
in  his  character  of  a  Mohock. 

The  unsuspecting  pedestrian,  who  is  coming  rapidly 
toward  him,  is  a  man  of  medium  size,  and  strong,  heavy 
"build.  As  the  clear  light  of  the  full  moon  strikes  on  his 
features,  Philip  discovers,  much  to  his  surprise,  that  he 
is  his  father's  former  secretary,  Geoffrey  Scribset! 
"  Curse  the  luck !  The  fellow  will  recognize  me,  to  a 
surety  I"  Philip  exclaims,  as  he  pulls  his  hat  down  over 
his  eyes  to  hide  his  face  as  much  as  possible. 

He  is  now  within  a  couple  of  yards  of  him,  and  Philip 
calls  to  him  in  a  feigned  voice, "  Halt !  knave !  where  goest 
thou  at  this — hie — hour  of  the  night?  St.  Dunstan's 
has  tolled  this  quarter  or  more.  Speak!"  and  he  draws 
his  sword  arm  back  in  a  striking  position. 

Geoffrey  is  no  coward,  but  the  sudden  challenge 
frightens  him,  and  the  sharp  point  against  his  throat 
makes  him  start  back  in  dismay;  unarmed  as  he  is 
he  sees  no  way  to  better  his  condition  than  calling  for 
help,  which  he  does,  in  stentorian  tones,  "  Help !  Watch !  I 
Murder ! ! !" 

In  an  instant  he  is  griped  from  behind,  and  the 
doughty  Catachresis  gags  him  with  his  fist,  whispering 
in  his  ear,  "  Silence,  or  you  are  a  dead  man.  We  are 
the  Mohocks  I"  The  poor  secretary  turns  pale  with  fear 
as  he  hears  the  dreaded  name,  for  he  has  once  before 
been  maltreated  by  this  same  crew  of  precious  scoundrels. 
Lord  Petronelle,  a  pallid  but  fine-looking  man,  now 
comes  on  the  scene,  and  whispers  to  Catachresis,  who 
releasing  Geoffrey,  nods  significantly  to  Philip  to  put 
the  usual  questions  to  the  prisoner  before  he  is  tor 
tured.  But  Geoffrey,  who  has  watched  an  opportunity, 
suddenly  trips  Petronelle — who  falls  with  a  thud  of  his 
head  against  the  cobble-stone — and  attempts  to  run. 
Philip,  quick  as  thought,  grasps  him  by  the  scuff  of  the 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  137 

neck,  and  endeavors  to  secure  him.  In  the  struggle  his 
hat  falls  off,  and  Geoffrey  recognizes  him  and  exclaims  : 
"  Lord  Wharton  ?"  "  Yes,  hoddy-peck ;"  he  replies, 
nettled  at  his  discovery.  "  Is  there  aught  remarkable — 
hie — in  that  ?"  and  he  shakes  him  fiercely,  for  he  is  both 
sinewy  and  muscular. 

The  advent  of  the  rest  of  the  crew  interrupts  any 
answer  that  he  may  have  made,  and  in  an  instant  he  is 
the  focus  of  a  dozen  bristling  rapiers  which  goad  him 
almost  to  madness.  Geoffrey  clenches  his  teeth,  and 
looks  his  tormentors  calmly  in  the  face,  until  Philip, 
whom  his  cool  endurance  begins  to  shame,  cries,  "  Come 
gentlemen,  I  think  we  may  let  him  go  now.  He  is  well 
punished  for  his  late  hours  and  his  insolence  to  my 
Lord  Petronelle ;  and  I  '11  warrant  that  he  behaves  him 
self  better  in  future."  Accordingly  they  each  give  him 
a  final  prick  and  sheathe  their  stained  rapiers. 

Poor  Geoffrey  is  about  to  stagger  home,  when  Philip 
stops  him,  and  slipping  a  well-filled  purse  into  his  hand, 
says,  "Master  Scribset:  prithee,  what  is  the  cause  of 
your  being  abroad  at  so  late  an  hour?" 

"  My  lord,"  he  answers,  as  he  slyly  pockets  the  peace- 
offering,  "  my  lady  sent  me  out  to  question  of  your  lord- 
ship's  whereabouts." 

Philip's  eyes  sparkle  as  he  asks,  "  Which  *  my  lady  ?' " 

Geoffrey  reulies,  "  Please  your  lordship,  her  la'aship, 
your  wife !" 

"  Umph !  Go  home  again  and  give  her  my  compli 
ments.  Tell  her  of  everything  that  has  happened — every 
thing,  mark  you !  or  I  '11  thrash  you  to-morrow  with  my 
own  hands.  Tell  her  also  that  the  next  man  who  comes 
to  seek  me  as  if  I  were  a  truant  school-boy,  will  not 
only  be  sweated,  but  will  get  a  short  shrift  and  a  long 
sword !"  and  turning  his  back  on  the  secretary  his  face 

12* 


138  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY  ; 

becomes  purple  with  passion  and  a  sense  of  offended 
dignity. 

His  listening  companions  cheer  him  and  pat  him  on 
the  back  for  his  independence.  They  now  proceed  to 
wrench  the  knockers  off  the  doors,  tear  down  signs  amid 
storms  of  hurras  and  curses,  and  do  all  the  mischief 
they  can  imagine,  until  the  Emperor  cries  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  Away !  Away !  hide  yourselves — the  patrol  1" 

All  disappear  with  wonderful  rapidity  down  the  dark 
alleys,  which  are  plentiful  in  this  neighborhood,  all  save 
Philip,  who  not  as  yet  au  fait  in  all  of  the  stratagems 
of  his  confreres,  stands  irresolute,  and  bewildered  at 
their  sudden  disappearance.  The  foremost  of  the  patrol 
lays  his  hand  on  Philip's  shoulder,  and  cries,  "  I  arrest 
you,  in  the  king's  name !" 

"  Deil  take  you  and  the  king,"  replies  Philip,  as  he 
springs  back,  draws  his  rapier,  and  stands  on  the  defen 
sive  ;  but  second  thoughts  decide  him  to  run  ere  they 
can  close  in  on  him,  and  at  once  he  bolts  down  one  of 
the  alleys  through  which  the  others  escaped. 

He  hears  the  hue  and  cry  that,  is  raised,  but  out 
distancing  all  his  pursuers,  he  arrives  at  the  mansion 
flushed  and  bewildered.  When  he  enters  the  drawing- 
room,  he  is  dismayed  at  finding  Margery  there,  who  has 
waited  for  him  until  she  has  fallen  asleep ;  she  is  curled 
in  the  large  armchair  formerly  belonging  to  his  dead 
father.  Her  hands  are  on  one  of  the  arms,  forming  a 
pillow  for  her  head,  and  her  breath  is  slow  and  regular, 
she  looks  so  child-like,  so  innocent  and  pure  that  all  of 
Philip's  former  affection  for  her — which  I  regret  to  say 
has  been  slowly  but  surely  waning — comes  back  to  him, 
and  he  presses  his  wine-heated  lips  on  hers  with  a  pas 
sionate  kiss. 

" Philip,"  she  murmurs  in  her  sleep,  " My  darling!" 

A  loud  knocking  at  the  outer  door  echoes  through  the 


OE,   PIIILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  139 

hall,  and  awakes  her.  When  she  sees  PhiHp  before  her, 
she  puts  her  hands  over  her  eyes  for  a  moment  as  though 
dazed  at  his  appearance,  and  exclaims,  "  How  you 
frightened  me,  Philip !  I  was  dreaming  of  3rou.  I 
thought  that  we  were  both  back  in  dear  Bucks  and  at 
Rooksnest !  and  I  thought  that  you  had  the  old  look  in 
your  eyes  which  used  to  please  me  so  and  which  I  seldom 
see  now :  why — "  she  stops  suddenly,  for  she  sees  the 
frown  gathering  on  his  face,  and  adds  abruptly :  "  Oh,  I 
know,  dear.  You  have  so  much  business  to  fret  you,  now 
that  your  father  is  dead,  that  you  have  no  time  for  me ; 
but  I  do  not  care  so  long  as  you  really  love  me." 

He  nods  his  head  in  an  intensely  grave  manner,  but 
says  nothing,  for  he  feels  the  wine  fumes  rising  in  his 
head,  and  dares  not  risk  an  answer. 

Margery,  who  has  seen  her  father  under  the  effects  of 
wine  at  many  a  dinner  and  supper,  at  once  divines  that 
he  has  been  drinking,  and  she  asks  him  whether  it  would 
not  be  better  for  him  to  retire;  and  he  assents  with 
drunken  gravity.  As  they  are  ascending  the  stairs,  the 
butler,  a  crusty,  purplish  old  man,  bursts  into  the  room, 
and  exclaims  in  terrified  accents,  "  Lord  have  mercy  on 
us  I  My  lord,  Master  Scribset  has  been  waylaid  and  well- 
nigh  killed  by  the  Mohocks ;  he  is  all  covered  with 
blood;"  and  after  this  wonderful  piece  of  intelligence 
he  bows,  and  leaves  hurriedly. 

"  Poor  man  I"  exclaims  Margery,  turning  pale  with 
terror.  "Attacked  by  the  Mohocks  1  Who  are  they, 
Philip  ?" 

"  What  should  I  know  about  them  ?"  he  demands  an 
grily  ;  "  there  is  a  company  of  very  proper — hie — gentle 
men  who  call  themselves  by  a  somewhat  similar  name ; 
but  whether  these  are  the  same  that  attacked  Scribset,  I 
know  not  and  care  less."  His  testy  tone  brings  tears  to 
her  eyes,  and  she  asks  no  more  questions. 


. 

140  HIMSELF  HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

Geoffrey  Scribset  has  roused  the  whole  house  with  his 
cries,  and  all  the  servants  are  sympathizing  with  him  as 
he  relates  the  tale  of  his  troubles  and  shows,  as  proofs  of 
his  veracity,  his  many  wounds  and  his  torn  clothes.  He 
does  not  criminate  Philip,  but  apostrophizes  the  whole 
of  the  lawless  troop  as  a  "cowardly,  guzzling  set  of 
murdering  swash-bucklers  and  bullies." 


141 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"  I  aince  fell  in  love  wi'  a  sweet  young  thing, 
A  bonny  bit  flower  o'  the  wilder'd  dell ; 
Her  heart  was  as  light  as  a  bird  on  the  wing, 
And  her  lip  was  as  ripe  as  the  moorland  bell." 

JAMES  HOGG. 
"  Zara. — As  I  could  wish  j  by  Heaven,  I'll  be  reveng'd." 

CONGREVE'S  MOURNING  BRIDE. 

THIS  day  Brad  is  determined  that  he  will  wed  pretty 
Meg  despite  all  obstacles  and  remonstrances ;  and  told 
his  father  so  the  previous  day.  Shem  wanted  at  least 
six  months  to  elapse  before  the  ceremony  should  take 
place,  but  the  impetuous  Brad  has  overruled  all  his 
objections  on  the  score  of  ill-timed  gayety  and  frolicking 
by  promising  to  have  the  momentous  affair  conducted 
with  quietness  and  very  little  merry-making. 

Shem  is  in  the  lodge  conferring  with  Debbie  anent  the 
wedding  tocher  which  the  young  people  are  to  have. 
Says  Debbie :  "  I  mun  gie  the  lad  what  I  can,  for  he  '11 
have  none  too  many  o'  this  world's  goods  to  begin  life 
on  I  Let  me  see.  Ye  say,  Shem,  that  he  is  to  have  thy 
post  o'  head  falconer  ?  That 's  summut,  to  be  sure  1" 

"Ay,  lass.  It 's  more  than  •  I  began  the  world  on. 
D'ye  recollect,  Debbie,  we  wed  on  five  shillin's,  a  bed 
stead  wi'  out  coverings,  an'  a  cradle,  wi'  m'  appen  a  few 
pots  an'  pans,  an'  we  have  got  along  well  enough. 
Brad  is  a  defty,  clever  lad,  an'  he  '11  manage  a'  reet  I 
doubt  not." 

Debbie  replies,  "  Ay,  ay ;  he  '11  do  reet,  never  fret ;  he 
was  allus  a  steady-like  lad." 


142  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

As  Shem  must  have  his  little  growl,  he  answers,  "  Lit 
tle  thanks  to  ye,  Debbie,  for  keeping  him  steady.  If  I 
had  not  been  about  to  keep  him  in  bit  order,  I  'd  not  like 
to  think  what  might  hae  come  of  him  wi'  a'  they  easiful 
an'  saft  ways  wi'  him.  It 's  a  wonder  that  he  has  na 
come  to  harm  afore  this !" 

She  replies  good-humoredly,  but  with  a  slight  flush, 
"  Out  on  ye,  Shem !  Ye  knaw  better  than  that." 

"  Weel,  Debbie,"  he  returns,  "  we  '11  not  quarrel  about 
him ;  get  yersen  ready,  an'  we  '11  trudge  to  t'  chapel." 

At  this  juncture  Brad  enters  with  a  sorrowful  mien, 
and  eyes  welling  with  restrained  tears.  Debbie  looks 
keenly  at  him  as  she  asks,  "  What  now  ?  Who 's  been 
crossin  ye  ?  Ye  look  like  a  draggled  hen." 

"Ay!  speak  out,  Brad;  what's  the  matter?"  chimes 
in  Shem,  and  taking  a  seat,  he  begins  to  nurse  his  leg 
while  he  waits  for  an  explanation  of  Brad's  sudden 
change  from  his  previous  blithesomeness  to  his  present 
dispirited  appearance. 

"  She  says  she  winna  be  wedded !"  bursts  out  from 
Brad  with  a  noise  of  something  between  a  sob  and  a  sigh. 

"Winna  wed!  What  does  the  jade  mean!"  Shem  echoes. 
"  Winna  wed !  Ye  willing !  What  torn-foolery  is  this  ?" 

Thus  gently  questioned,  Brad  tells  his  piteous  tale  to 
his  sympathizing  hearers. 

It  seems  that  Dame  Busbie,  who  was  nurse  to  the  old 
lord,  had  told  Brad  when  he  called  on  her  to  make  the  final 
preparations,  that  Meg  should  not  be  married  to  him 
until  this  day  three  months  on  account  of  my  lord's  recent 
death.  In  vain  has  he  promised  that  the  wedding  should 
be  conducted  very  quietly,  and  has  even  declared  that  he 
would  allow  no  dancing  or  singing.  All  was  useless. 
The  old  dame  was  obdurate,  and  Brad  was  forced  to 
return  home  almost  broken-hearted  at  this  second  cruel 
stroke  of  fate. 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  143 

"  Go  ye  to  Dame  Busbie,  and  try  to  persuade  her, 
Dad,"  cries  Debbie.  "Ye  can  do  more  wi'  her  than  any 
one  else  hereabouts ;"  and  she  finishes  in  ireful  accents : 
"  Mak'  t'  ould  fool  do  as  Brad  wishes  I" 

Shem  grumbles,  but  acquiesces,  and  crushing  his 
forest-cap  hard  down  on  his  head,  he  starts  for  Meg's 
abode,  which  is  about  ten  minutes'  walk  from  the  lodge. 

Brad  awaits  his  return  with  burning  impatience,  and 
yet  dreads  it,  lest  he  too  may  be  unsuccessful.  This 
idea  he  endeavors  to  ignore  altogether,  but  it -will  persist 
in  cropping  up  again  and  again,  turning  him  almost 
crazy,  for  he  dearly  loves  the  girl,  and  would  give  the 
whole  world  besides  to  call  her  his  wife.  Debbie  fusses 
about  arranging  and  disarranging  Shem's  hunting  gear 
and  his  fishing  tackle  with  a  recklessness  which  is  almost 
appalling,  considering  Shem's  irascibility  and  his  dread 
of  any  one  meddling  with  his  affairs. 

At  last  Shem's  tread  is  heard,  Brad  turns  pale,  and 
Debbie  stands  stock  still  with  her  lips  firmly  closed, 
and  her  eyes  fixed  on  Brad.  Shem  enters  slowly,  seats 
himself  in  silence,  removes  his  cap,  lays  one  knee  gravely 
over  the  other,  and  finally,  with  many  prefatory  admoni 
tions  to  Brad  anent  the  folly  of  being  in  a  hurry,  says :  "  I 
went  there,  and  after  a  bit  talk  o'  the  weather  wi' t'  dame, 
I  hinted  what  we  wanted."  At  this  important  part  of 
the  recital,  he  gives  a  pitcher  to  Brad,  and  orders  him  to 
go  down  into  the  vault  and  to  fill  it  with  the  best  October. 
Brad  obeys  and  returns  with  a  marvellous  quickness. 
Shem's  eyes  twinkle  as  he  notices  his  impatience,  and  he 
resumes  his  story,  "  After  I  plagued  her  a  bit  aboot  it, 
she  said  that  ye  might  wed  one  anither  if — "  Here  he 
stops  to  drink  a  draught  of  the  bubbling  ale.  "  If  there 
is  not  too  much  merry-makin'  or  noise." 

Brad,  leaping  to  his  feet,  gives  a  view-halloo  which 
makes  the  old  rafters  ring  again,  and  he  proceeds  to  hug 


144  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

first  the  stolid  Shem,  and  then  his  more  impressionable 
mother,  who  is  so  happy  that  she  must  needs  cry  to 
relieve  her  feelings. 

I  will  not  inflict  a  description  of  the  wedding  on  you, 
but  merely  mention  that  everything  passed  off  pleasantly, 
and  that  Brad  received  the  post  of  head  falconer  from 
his  father  with  proper  thankfulness  for  the  gift. 

Brad  and  Meg  are  standing  together  to  the  right  of 
the  chapel  and  are  conversing  in  the  strain  usual  under 
such  circumstances,  when  they  are  suddenly  startled  by 
the  deep,  harsh  tones  of  Maldran  Gudru,  and  find  him 
close  beside  them. 

"  Mistress  Meg,"  he  says,  "  may  the  moon  look  down 
wi'  a  lucky  light,  on  your  pretty  face  to-night,  an'  on 
yours  too,  Master  Brad.  Could  ye  give  the  poor  gypsy 
a  few  pennies  to  drink  to  the  health  o'  the  first  born  ?" 

Meg  blushes,  and  is  so  indignant  at  the  man's  impu 
dence  that  she  scarcely  knows  whether  she  is  standing  on 
her  head  or  her  heels ;  pulling  out  her  little  silk-netted 
purse,  however,  she  gives  him  a  couple  of  pennies,  which 
gratuity  Brad  generously  doubles  ;  whereupon  he  invokes 
the  blessings  of  the  moon  and  all  the  starry  host  upon 
them,  and  turns  to  go,  but  stops  again  and  inquires : 
"  Master  Brad,  did  his  lordship  leave  a  message  for  the 
queen  wi'  any  o'  ye  afore  he  died?" 

Brad  and  Meg  both  answer  negatively,  and  Maldran 
walks  away  in  the  direction  of  the  camp. 

As  the  happy  couple  no  doubt  prefer  silence  and  their 
own  company  to  ours,  we  will  now  turn  our  attention  to 
Maldran  and  his  proceedings.  He  taps  at  the  queen's 
door,  and  enters  with  a  lazy  air.  She  is  lying  in  her  old 
place,  and  she  looks  at  him  inquiringly  with  her  black, 
eloquent  eyes.  Maldran  scowls  as  he  replies,  "  He  died 
wi'out  sayin'  a  word  about  ye,  either  by  word  o'  mouth 
or  by  way  o'  writin'." 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WIIARTON'S   CAREER.  145 

A  frown  furrows  her  olive  brow,  and  her  full  red  lips 
press  close  together  as  she  replies,  "  So  be  it.  When 
he  struck  me  for  daring  to  shame  him  for  her  sake,  I 
told  him  that  it  would  take  a  thousand  pounds  of  his 
gold  to  clear  his  mark  from  my  cheek  1  gold  for  her  who 
starves  in  London.  Maldran,  hear  my  oath ;"  rising  from 
her  lounge  she  stands  erect,  and  utters  in  low,  vindictive 
accents  :  "  I  swear,  on  my  royal  oath,  that  his  son  shall 
sulfer  for  his  father's  sins — unless  he  pays  me  my  de 
mand  1" 

Maldran  bows  his  head  as  she  draws  from  her  breast 
the  symbol  of  the  gypsies'  religion,  which  she  kisses,  as 
does  Maldran  also. 

"  You  can  go,"  she  says,  and  Maldran  leaves  the  room. 

"  Poor  Mistress  Nelly  little  thought  that  her  kindness 
to  me  when  I  was  a  wee  bairn,  who  thought  of  nothing 
but  the  pretty  flowers  and  the  wild  forest,  would  be  re 
collected  these  many  yea,rs  ;  but  my  memory  for  a  kind 
word  and  a  cruel  one  has  ever  been  good.  A  favor  done 
me  or  an  insult  given  me,  I  ne'er  forget.  When  I  think 
that  he  was  her  ruin,  and  think  too  of  her  being  a 
starved,  pointed-at  outcast  in  London,  my  blood  boils, 
and  I  feel  wicked  enough  to  kill  him."  She  lifts  her 
hand  and  passes  it  gently  over  a  small  cicatrice  on  her 
cheek  which  mars  the  beauty  of  its  smoothness.  "  His 
son  shall  rue  that  day,  and  his  soul  will  writhe  as  it  feels 
my  vengeance  on  his  darling ;"  and  the  fiery,  vengeful 
girl  grits  her  teeth  in  very  anger.  Her  naturally  violent 
temper  is  rendered  still  more  ungovernable  by  the  power 
which  she  wields  as  queen  of  her  tawny  band.  In  mo 
ments  of  great  excitement  she  is  subject  to  fearful  par 
oxysms  of"  rage,  which  almost  tear  her  frame  asunder, 
and  then  woe  to  the  follower  who  crosses  her  will  or  dis 
obeys  her  slightest  command.  "I  would  forego  my 
revenge,"  she  continues,  "  to  make  her  comfortable ! — 
13 


146  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

I  '11  send  a  message  to  the  young  lord.  If  he  obeys  my 
commands,  I  '11  forgive  the  past ;"  sounding  her  whistle, 
Maldran  enters. 

"Maldran,  go  to  London  at  once!  Find  the  young 
lord  and  give  him  this  message ;"  she  makes  known  to 
him  the  details  with  which  we  are  already  acquainted. 
"  If  he  agrees,  take  the  money  to  this  house."  She 
hands  him  a  piece  of  dirty,  greasy  paper  whereon  are 
the  words  Nelly  Valentin  and  also  her  address.  "  Tell 
her  that  it  is  from  a  friend,  but  mention  no  names.  If 
his  lordship  refuses  my  offer,  return  at  once."  Dismiss 
ing  him  with  an  imperious  gesture,  she  closes  her  eyes. 


OR,   PIIILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  147 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Philto. — 0  my  son  ! 

I  would  not  have  you  with  the  profligate 

Hold  any  conversation,  in  the  forum 

Or  in  the  street.     The  manners  of  this  nge 

I  know  -  bad  men  would  fain  corrupt  the  good, 

And  make  them  like  themselves.    Our  evil  manners 

Confound,  disorder  everything — 

Ly  sildcs. — This  prudence,  as  a  buckler  to  my  youth, 
I  ever  had  : — 

PLANTER'S  TREASURE.     II.  n. 

GENERAL  HOLMES,  who  has  taken  up  his  quarters  with 
Philip  for  the  present,  is  in  the  front  parlor  of  the  house, 
looking  out  of  the  window,  and  watching  the  numerous 
passers-by.  He  looks  on  with  an  amused  air  at  the 
strained  gestures  and  dandified  grace  of  Sir  Welle  Knee- 
bend  as  he  pays  his  devoirs  to  his  fair  companion,  and 
loads  her  with  euphuistic  compliments  and  honeyed 
speeches. 

"  Pardie,  fair  Mistress  Allstile  !  Believe  me  when  I 
tell  you  that  you  are  the  Venus  of  my  thoughts,  the 
Aphrodite  of  my  dreams,  and  if  Cupid  will  tip  his  shafts 
in  the  fire  of  your  eyes,  can  I  help  it  if  they  rankle  in 
my  heart  ?" 

She  favors  him  with  a  pleasant  smile  as  she  replies, 
"  As  I  am  virtuous,  sir,  you  are  pleased  to  flatter  me  to 
day."  And  she  manoeuvres  her  fan  with  the  most  dan 
gerous  adroitness,  artfully  leading  him  on  to  give  her 
more  of  his  newest  compliments  and  well-turned  periods. 

The  general  is  interrupted  in  his  observations  of  Lon- 


148  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

don  life,  as  compared  to  his  own  quiet  home,  by  a  pair 
of  little,  soft  hands  which  clasp  tightly  over  his  eyes, 
while  a  pair  of  fragrant,  dewy  lips  press  his  scarred  and 
bearded  cheek. 

"  Good-day,  father  mine.  Truty,  I  think  }^on  pretty 
girl,  who  trips  so  lightly  on  the  pave,  must  have  be 
witched  you.  I  made  noise  enough  when  I  entered,  but 
you  never  even  turned  your  head  1" 

"  I  was  thinking  about  something,  Margery,  and  I  be 
came  too  absorbed  to  pay  attention  to  anything  else,  I 
suppose." 

Pushing  a  low  stool  close  to  his  feet,  she  sits  down 
on  it,  and  rests  her  chin  on  his  knee,  while  her  eyes  look 
up  to  his  face;  they  have  lost  the  old  look  of  perfect 
happiness  which  once  glowed  in  them  and  diffused  its 
light  over  her. 

"  Well,  father,"  she  begins,  "'you  desired  to  have  a  long 
talk  with  me  to-day.  I  am  all  ready  now,  so  pray  pro 
ceed  1"  and  a  saucy  look  sparkles  for  a  moment  in  her 
eyes.  She  adds,  by  way  of  parenthesis,  "  I  do  trust  that 
there  is  nothing  disagreeable  coming?" 

"  Daughter,"  he  replies,  gravely,  "  I  know  that  the 
topic  will  be  disagreeable  to  you;  but  it  is  one  which 
must  be  faced  sooner  or  later ;  therefore,  the  sooner  the 
better.  Never  let  the  enemy  flank  you  when  you  can 
attack  him  in  front! — a  good  maxim,  my  dear!"  He 
coughs  once  or  twice  to  clear  his  throat,  and  resumes : 
"It  is  about  Philip  that  I  would  speak,  hinny!"  At 
these  words  she  buries  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  is  very 
silent.  "  I  have  observed  a  sad  change  in  his  demeanor 
toward  you  of  late.  He  has  not  only  grown  indifferent 
and  careless,  but  he  has  often  treated  you  with  a  cutting 
cruelty  which  I  will  not  allow!"  Margery  shakes  her 
head  in  denial,  but  will  not  raise  her  face.  "  His  con 
duct  has  become  the  talk  of  London,  and  it  is  confidently 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  149 

reported  that  he  is  one  of  the  ringleaders  of  the  Mohocks 
— a  vile  rabble  who  cut,  maim,  and  insult  whom  they 
wish  in  perfect  security.  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  his 
losses  at  the  gaming  table  are  immense,  which  losses  neces 
sitate  his  raising  money  among  the  Jews  who  invariably 
get  cent  per  cent.  If  he  persists  in  this  course,  or  con 
tinues  to  neglect  you  any  longer  than  this  week — back  to 
Bucks  you  shall  go !"  He  notes  how  her  fingers  press 
tightly  against  her  temples,  and  his  heart  yearns  for  her. 
Altering  his  tone  of  command  for  one  of  entreaty,  he 
adds,  "  You  will  do  as  I  wish,  hinny  ?" 

She  shivers  slightly,  but  no  answer  comes  from  her, 
and  he  feels  the  hand  which  touches  his  own  grow  cold 
and  deathlike.  He  raises  her  head,  and  to  his  great 
alarm  sees  that  she  ie  lifeless  and  still.  "  Peggy !  ho, 
Peggy!"  he  calls  in  loud  tones,  but  before  the  servant 
can  enter,  my  lady  herself  sweeps  in  and  cries :  "  Heavens, 
General !  What  is  the  matter  ?  What  ails  Margery  ? 
What  have  you  done  to  her  ?  As  I  live  the  poor  thing 
has  fainted  I" 

In  answer  to  her  questions,  he  replies  distractedly :  "  I 
believe  I  have  killed  her !  I  told  her  that  if  Philip  did 
not  in  future  treat  her  more  like  a  wife  and  less  like  a 
quean,  she  must  go  back  again  to  Holme  Grange.  Look 
at  her !  His  conduct  has  made  her  grow  thin  and  pale, 
and  I  know  that  if  he  continues  his  brutal  treatment  of 
her  much  longer,  it  will  not  be  long  ere  I  shall  lose  my 
darling.  The  thought  almost  crazes  me !" 

Lady  Wharton,  turning  pale,  falls  into  a  chair  close 
by  her,  and  cries  in  stifled  accents  which  seem  wrung 
from  her  heart,  "  Philip,  Philip !  she  will  not  be  the  only 
victim,"  she  adds  abruptly,  "  General,  I  love  Philip  more 
than  mj^self,  far  more,  and  you  can  understand  my  feel 
ings  when  I  can  tell  you  that  I  think  that  your  advice 
to  poor  Margery  is  good !  Philip — my  tongue  almost 

13* 


150  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

palsies  as  I  say  so — is  already  worse  than  half  the 
rufflers  in  town.  I  have  had  spies  who  have  informed 
me  of  his  movements — of  his  disgraceful  intrigues  and 
insolent  demeanor  to  high  and  low ;  and  I  have  listened 
to  their  accounts  with  an  aching  heart.  Time  and  again 
I  have  tried  to  reclaim  him ;  but  he  invariably  repulses 
me  with  a  ribald  jest  or  an  impious  execration.  0  God ! 
it  cannot  be  long  ere  I  am  laid  with  my  husband." 

The  General's  eyes  flash  as  he  listens  to  a  mother's 
detail  of  her  son's  crimes  and  blasphemies ;  and  he  ex 
claims  sternly,  "  Put  him  under  the  control  of  some  one 
who  can  master  him.  Send  him  away  from  London  and 
its  associations.  While  he  is  amid  such  a  crew  as  the 
Mohocks,  he  can  never  come  to  anything  creditable 
either  to  himself  or  us." 

She  replies  in  a  firm  voice,  "  Thank  you  for  the  sug 
gestion,  General ;  he  shall  go !" 

Holmes,  satisfied  that  she  will  follow  his  advice,  re 
joices  accordingly,  and  replies,  "  When  Philip  returns, 
I  will  tell  him  of  my  purpose,  and  see  what  effect  it  has 
on  him !" 

Margery  has  recovered  from  her  swoon,  and  she  weeps 
silently.  Poor  child !  she  is  too  heart-sick  and  wearied 
to  offer  any  opposition  to  her  father's  words.  Suddenly 
she  raises  her  head  as  though  she  hears  a  well-known 
foot  approaching,  and  looking  alternately  at  her  father 
and  Lady  Wharton,  she  gasps,  " Philip  !  he  is  coming!" 
The  door  is  thrown  open  with  a  crash,  and  Philip  enters. 
His  clothes  are  all  awry,  and  his  tangled  curls  hang  in 
matted  bunches  on  his  torn  and  rumpled  collar ;  one  of 
his  shoes  lacks  its  buckle,  and  the  plumes  of  his  hat  are 
broken  and  muddy.  He  looks  sullen  and  haggard,  but 
an  amused  smile  flits  across  his  face  as  he  exclaims, 
"  Que  le  Diable !  here  's  a  pretty  spectacle  for  a  gentle 
men  to  view.  Let  me  cast  you,  i'  faith !"  he  begins  in  a 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE    OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  151 

drawling  voice :  "  Scene  first.  Room  in  my  own  house. 
Characters :  General  Surlysides — stern,  and  angry.  Mis 
tress  Prettypouts,  his  daughter — tearful  but  shrewish! 
Umph  I  My  Lady  of  the  Goodson — imperious,  but  weak- 
minded  ;  and  last,  though  not  least :  Philip,  her  model 
son — good-natured  and  obliging,  but  ill-used  by  the  other 
characters.  Umph !  Time  uncertain.  Draw  up  the 
curtain  !  The  prompter's  bell  has  tinkled."  Taking 
a  chair,  he  twirls  it  around  two  or  three  times,  and 
finally  seats  himself  on  it,  with  his  face  to  its  back,  which 
is  the  approved  fashion  at  the  Highway,  an  inn '  of  un 
enviable  notoriety  as  the  resort  of  thieves,  gamblers,  and 
rooks. 

Holmes,  giving  Margery  in  charge  of  her  ladyship, 
desires  her  to  leave  him  to  deal  with  Philip  alone,  to 
which  she  accedes,  and  they  leave  the  room  without  a 
glance  at  Philip,  who  looks  on  with  a  smile  on  his  lips 
and  a  sneer  in  his  eye.  "  Hoity-toity"  he  exclaims,  and 
turns  his  attention  to  Holmes,  who  says  in  a  stern  manner, 
"  My  lord,  it  is  high  time  that  we  arrive  at  a  mutual  un 
derstanding.  Of  late  your  conduct  to  my  daughter  has 
been  such  as  I  will  not  brook.  You  treat  her  as  though 
she  were  your  light-o'-love,  and  not  your  innocent,  loving 
wife.  I  have  heard  of  your  brave  deeds  in  Drury  and  the 
Strand,  and  also  of  your  reckless  gaming  and  your 
profligacy,  which  must  in  time  lead  you  to  destruction 
and  ruin.  "Where  are  all  your  nights  passed  ?  I  doubt 
not  that  you  would  be  ashamed  to  tell  me  where  you 
spent  last  night?" 

He  is  interrupted  by  a  flourish  of  Philip's  hand  as  he 
rises,  and  says,  in  a  cool,  irritating  manner:  "  Hark  ye, 
General !  your  most  monstrous  curiosity  shall  be  gratified* 
Last  night  I  passed  in  a  mighty  pleasant  manner  at 
Dollie  Hawke's.  Various  gentlemen  and  myself  honored 
her  house  with  our  presence.  We  played  several  games 


152  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

at  whist,  and  s'blood,  I  regret  to  say  I  lost  a  few  hundred 
guineas.  After  that  we  walked  Drury  and  Newgate  till 
we  were  tired.  After — but  you  have  had  enough,  Gene 
ral,  eh?"  and  he  laughs  heartily. 

Holmes  replies,  "My  lord,  you  are  not  fit  to  have 
charge  of  my  daughter.  I  shall  take  her  back  to  Holme 
Grange,  and  there  she  shall  remain  until  I  hear  better 
accounts  of  you  than  at  present !  Good-morning."  And 
he  leaves  Philip  to  think  over  the  turn  which  affairs  have 
taken. 

Now  the  door  opens  again,  and  his  mother  enters. 
Whistling  a  prolonged  note,  he  runs  his  fingers  through 
his  hair.  "Egad!"  he  exclaims;  "another  battery  to 
open  fire." 

"  Philip,"  says  her  ladyship,  in  a  voice  which  compels 
his  attention,  "  what  I  purpose  saying  to  you,  and  why 
I  say  it,  require  no  explanation,  nor  need  you  offer  any 
resistance  to  my  wishes ;  for  you  must  do  as  I  desire 
you.  Ere  this  week  is  out  you  will  be  under  the  charge 
of  a  tutor  who  will  take  you  abroad  in  order  to  teach 
you  to  be  a  gentleman,  a  Whig,  and  a  Protestant.  You 
have  ample  time  to  make  all  your  preparations  in  the 
three  days  which  are  allowed  you  ere  your  departure. 
Do  you  understand  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do,"  he  replies,  awed  by  her  deter 
mined  manner  and  the  steady  look  which  she  concen 
trates  on  his  face.  "You  are  rather  peremptory,  but 
what  can  I  do  ?  che  sard  sard." 

Surprised  at  her  easy  victory,  she  goes  to  him  and 
kisses  him  with  a  renewed  confidence  in  his  nature,  and 
she  leaves  the  room  with  a  pleased  expression  on  her 
face. 

"  Scylla  and  Charybdis  without  a  choice.  At  one  blow 
I  lose  Margery,  and  am  sent  abroad  with,  most  probably, 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  153 

a  long-haired,  prick-eared,  shambling  pedant,  of  whose 
didactic  propensities  I  shall  have  the  advantage.  At 
any  rate,  the  rose  of  my  thorns  is  that  I  can  get  to  the 
place  where  England's  anointed  king  lies  perdu,"  and 
he  strikes  up  in  a  low  key — 

"  The  king  shall  hae  his  ain  again  I" 


154  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 


CHAPTER  XXIH. 

Queen. — "  I  know  your  projects  and  your  close  cabals." 

THE  EARL  OF  ESSEX,  I.  I. 

King.—  "Q,  Qormaz!    0,  Alvarez  !  jstop  not  here." 

XIMENA,  I.  i. 
\ 

THE  chevalier  had  received  Earl  Mar  at  Fetter- 
esso  with  great  kindness  and  affability,  and  had  then 
taken  up  his  march  to  the  royal  palace  of  Scone.  There 
he  expected  to  find  a  large  and  well-disciplined  army ; 
instead,  he  saw  crowds  of  unarmed  vagabonds  who  were 
rioting  and  drinking  with  a  sublime  indifference  to  the 
orders  which  had  been  circulated  among  them.  James's 
soul  was  not  big  enough  to  encounter  such  a  grievous 
disappointment,  and  he  re-embarked  at  Montrose,  dis 
pirited  and  hopeless.  He  landed  at  Gravelines  after -a 
short  voyage,  and  thence  he  travelled  to  Saint  Germains. 

He  was  tall  and  slimly  built ;  his  countenance  was 
tinged  with  a  gloomy  cast,  and  the  Stuart  frown  was  oft 
bristling  in  his  brows.  His  presence  was  imposing  and 
kinglike,  but  his  lack  of  energy,  his  vacillating  mind,  and 
his  distrustful  nature  belied  his  looks.  The  outside 
white  marble  and  fair  to  the  view — the  inside  corruption 
and  decay. 

His  first  step  was  most  unwise  and  impolitic,  and  sur 
prised  at  once  friends  and  enemies.  Even  his  sympa 
thizing  half-brother,  the  Duke  of  Berwick,  admitted  that 
"  he  must  have  lost  his  reason  to  dismiss  the  only  Eng 
lishman  he  had  that  was  able  to  manage  his  affairs ;"  and 
he  spoke  highly  of  his  able  management  and  his  astute 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  155 

policy  in  directing  matters.  The  dismissal  of  Boling- 
broke,  which  occurred  about  a  year  after  his  disgrace  at 
the  Hanoverian  court,  was  occasioned  partly  by  his 
incautiousness  in  speaking  of  state  secrets  and  his  irre 
verent  fashion  of  ridiculing  the  grand  pretensions  of  the 
miniature  court,  and  partly  by  other  indiscretions.  At 
any  rate,  he  was  deposed  from  his  office,  and  the  seals 
were  transferred  to  the  gallant  Earl  of  Mar. 

James  then  proceeded  to  Avignon,  where  he  held  his 
court  hard  by  the  Palace  of  the  Popes — a  sombre  Gothic 
pile  of  the  twelfth  century,  which  was  raised  high  upon 
the  bold  rock  of  Doms.  In  one  of  its  dripping  dungeons, 
deep  down  in  the  solid  rock  and  dark  as  Erebus,  was 
once  immured  the  Roman  Tribune,  great  Rienzi.  It  was 
in  Avignon,  the  favored,  also  that  Petrarca  first  saw  that 
Laura  of  Noves,  who  is  as  real  to  our  senses  as  though 
she  stood  before  us  now. 

Bolingbroke  was  intensely  piqued  at  his  disgrace,  and 
he  at  once  renounced  all  connection  with  the  Jacobite 
cause,  and,  it  is  affirmed,  made  overtures  to  my  Lord 
Stair  for  a  pardon.  To  the  Queen-mother,  who  had  cir 
cumspectly  sent  him  a  kindly  letter  to  inform  him  that 
"his  dismissal  had  taken  place  without  her  knowledge 
and  consent,"  his  answer  was  prompt  and  curt :  "  I  am 
now  a  free  man,  and  may  my  arm  rot  off  if  ever  I  draw 
sword  or  pen  again  for  your  son!"  Thus  the  chevalier 
created  a  new  and  powerful  enemy  at  a  time  when  he 
was  in  the  direst  need  of  friends. 

In  England  the  leaders  of  this  ill-omened  rebellion 
reaped  to  the  utmost  their  reward  for  their  attachment 
to  the  Pretender.  Many  minor  officers  underwent  a 
short  court-martial  and  were  summarily  shot ;  whilst  the 
more  prominent  were  escorted  to  London  with  fifes  and 
drums  playing  a  "  triumphal  march"  to  grace  their 
"  public  entry."  They  were  all  tied  with  their  arms 


156  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

behind  their  backs,  not  even  excepting  Forster,  the  Par 
liament  member — a  stern,  cold  man,  whose  face  was 
granite,  and  who  held  his  back  as  stiff  as  steel  as  he 
scowled  on  the  yelling  crowd  who  pelted  him  with  eggs, 
apples,  and  dead  cats,  after  the  chivalrous  custom  of  the 
mob  at  all  times.  In  the  House  of  Lords  were  im 
peached  the  Earl  of  Derwentwater,  first  cousin  to  the 
Pretender  and  a  Roman  Catholic,  either  of  which  cir 
cumstances  was  enough  to  behead  him  during  the  fearful 
excitement  which  prevailed  in  London  ;  and  the  Earls  of 
Nithisdale  and  Carnwath,  both  of  whom  narrowly  escaped 
the  axe;  and  various  other  nobles  with  whom  history 
has  more  to  do  than  romance. 

In  the  Commons  some  of  the  staunchest  Whigs  inclined 
their  ear  to  mercy,  and  regretted  the  necessity  of  robbing 
England  of  her  noble  families ;  but  Sir  Richard  Steele, 
who  had  risen  and  moved  some  milder  measures  than 
the  rope  or  the  axe,  was  violently  attacked  by  Walpole, 
who  cut  about  in  such  a  slashing  style  that  "  Literary 
Dick"  almost  swooned  to  find  what  a  villain  he  had  been 
— almost  an  abettor  of  rebels  and  parricides !  Walpole 
saw  the  necessity  for  a  terrible  example,  and  he  was 
merciless,  determined  that  the  disaffected  should,  be 
taught  an  example  which  would  never  be  forgotten. 
****** 

Philip  slowly  saunters  down  Pall  Mall,  dressed  in  a 
suit  which  makes  many  a  dandy's  heart  fill  with  envy  as 
he  ruffles  by,  scented,  curled,  and  pomatumed.  In  his 
right  hand  he  carries  a  thin  malacca  switch  or  whip 
whose  head  is  of  gold  and  incrusted  with  diamonds. 
With  it  he  gingerly  taps  a  little  girl  who  carries  a  bundle 
of  clothes  which  have  just  undergone  the  laundress' 
operation  of  cleansing,  signing  her  out  of  his  way  with  a 
condescension  which  is  simply  overpowering. 

As  he  arrives  in  front  of  that  resort  of  wits,  fools,  and 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  151 

quidnuncs,  the  Smyrna  Coffee  House,  he  halts  at  the 
door  for  a  short  time,  takes  his  snuff-box  from  the 
pocket  of  his  azure  satin  waistcoat,  opens  its  jewelled 
lid  with  a  twist  which  excites  the  admiration  of  the 
bystanders,  and  delicately  titillates  his  nose  with  the 
aromatic  powder — taking  especial  care,  by  the  way,  that 
a  few  grains  shall  fall  on  his  snowy  lace  bosom. 
Entering  with  an  easy  grace,  he  lays  a  guinea  on  the  bar, 
and  entirely  waives  his  claim  to  any  change,  while  he 
looks  around  at  the  various  idlers  who  lounge  at  the  bar 
or  sit  in  groups  at  the  tables.  "  Ah !  Swift,  how  d'  ye 
do?"  and  he  nods  across  the  room  to  the  Dean,  who  is 
drinking  coffee  with  Mat  Prior  at  the  centre  table,  which 
is  reserved  exclusively  for  distinguished  guests. 

"Ah!  Wharton,  how  d'ye  do?"  Swift  irascibly  re 
torts  ;  he  is  nettled  at  his  rather  insolent  bearing  and 
the  apparent  condescension  of  his  manner. 

Philip,  walking  up  to  the  table,  extends  his  snuff 
box,  which  favor  the  Dean  reciprocates,  and  after  the 
delicate  operation  of  inhaling  it  is  accomplished,  Swift 
says,  "  My  lord,  I  hear  that  you  are  to  be  shipped  off 
on  your  travels  shortly.  Let  me  see !  what  is  the  name 
of  your  future  governor?" 

Philip  angrily  replies,  "  Governor  ?  Demme,  sir,  secre 
tary — secretary  I" 

"  Well,  then,  secretary,"  replies  the  Dean  with  an  ill- 
concealed  smile. 

"  To-morrow  I  set  out  for  Geneva.  My  secretary's 
name  is  Monsieur  de  Savatte,  a  right  worthy  Frencher." 

Swift  cries  in  affected  alarm,  "Save  me!  For  your 
mother's  sake,  I  hope  that  his  principles  have  been  An 
glicized?" 

A  few  of  the  bystanders  titter  at  this  remark,  for  in  the 
time  that  he  has  been  in  London,  Philip  has  contrived  to 
let  everybody  know  how  widely  different  are  his  views  from 
14 


158  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

those  of  his  mother's  both  as  to  religion  and  politics.  He 
feels  the  thrust,  and  hears  the  titter ;  but  he  coolly 
replies, "  No,  my  dear  Swift ;  I  understand  that  he  is  still 
too  French  to  believe  in  the  creed  of  which  you  are  one 
Ghristianly  expounder ;  but  he  is  a  Calvinist  and  a  loyal 
gentleman."  He  turns  his  back  on  the  Dean  as  he  says 
this,  and  facing  the  group  who  have  clustered  near  him, 
he  exclaims  in  a  scornful  voice,  "  In  what  low  hole  am  I 
that  I  can  see  in  one  lump  such  a  pack  of  snuffling  curs 
as  ye?  S'life!  but  that  my  sword  has  been  in  good 
blood,  I  'd  e'en  have  a  few  passadoes  at  ye  for  my  amuse 
ment  !" 

Instantly  cries  of  "  Stab  him !  knock  him  down !  cud 
gel  hun  !"  are  heard  from  those  who  are  more  concealed 
from  view.  Drawing  his  rapier,  Philip  whirls  it  once 
above  his  head,  a  motion  which  makes  the  nearest  shrink 
from  him  in  affright,  and  he  stands  on  the  defensive  in 
expectation  of  an  attack ;  those  who  surround  him,  how 
ever,  are  chiefly  men  of  peace — poetasters,  small  wits,  and 
literary  hacks — and  none  of  them  offer  to  molest  him. 
Looking  at  them  for  a  moment,  he  bursts  into  a  hearty 
laugh,  and  curses  them  soundly  for  a  pack  of  cowards. 
When  he  has  finished  his  tirade,  he  shows  his  back  to 
them,  and  sheathes  his  blade  with  a  vicious  snap.  What 
now?  Mat  Prior  springing  quickly  to  Philip's  side 
elevates  his  thick  cane  above  his  head  parallel- wise.  No 
sooner  has  he  done  this  when  thwack!  falls  a  heavy 
cudgel  on  it  with  such  force  as  to  make  the  protecting 
stick  flatten  Philip's  hat  over  his  eyes. 

Directly  he  turned  his  back  on  the  titterers,  one 
cowardly  fellow  aimed  a  blow  at  him  which  would  have 
certainly  broken  his  head  if  Prior  had  not  diverted  its 
destination,  and  returned  the  compliment  by  levelling  the 
would-be  hero  to  the  ground.  The  landlord  now  pushes 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.          159 

in  and  swears,  if  order  is  not  restored,  that  he  will  give 
the  alarm  and  have  them  all  arrested. 

Philip  thanks  Prior  for  his  good  service,  and  asks  the 
favor  of  a  bottle  of  wine  with  him,  of  which  he  also  in 
vites  Swift  to  partake;  but  the  worthy  Dean  declines, 
and  pleading  an  engagement  in  St.  James'  Park,  he 
leaves  them  to  discuss  it  alone. 

"  It  was  a  lucky  ward-off  which  saved  my  skull  that 
time,  Mr.  Prior !  Allow  me :  '  Your  health  and  success.' " 
And  the  glasses  clink  together  before  they  are  emptied. 

"Thanks,  my  lord,"  replies  Prior.  "You  spoke  of 
going  abroad.  Do  you  design  travelling  in  France  at 
all?" 

"Yery  probably  I  shall.  I  should  like  to  see  Paris 
vastly  well." 

"  Avignon  is  not  far  from  there  ?"  adds  Prior,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Well,  even  Avignon  has  its  sights,"  replies  Philip 
with  a  smile,  which  his  companion  returns.  "  How  is  it 
with  yourself  and  the  government  now,  Mr.  Prior  ?  All 
quarrels  settled?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  and  I  am  thankful  for  it.  My  long 
confinement  seriously  impaired  my  health."  He  refers 
to  the  two  years  during  which  he  was  kept  a  prisoner  in 
his  own  house. 

"S'life!"  replies  Philip,  "I'd  have  run  away  long 
before  two  years  expired  or  a  week  either,  or  else  I  'd 
have  fired  my  prison.  But  I  must  leave  you !  Bye-bye  ! 
I  am  off  for  the  park  and  a  bit  of  fresh  air."  And 
paying  his  bill,  he  goes  out. 

He  has  not  strolled  along  very  far  when  he  encounters 
his  friend,  Sir  Harry  Hautefort,  whose  arm  he  takes  and 
they  walk  off  together:  ogling  the  fair  dames  as  they 
pass,  or  criticizing  the  dresses  of  the  fops  and  cavaliers. 


160  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Sir  Harry  unluckily  steps  on  a  loose  stone  just  as  a  glis 
tening  beau  is  passing  him,  and  the  mud  spirts  in  a  dirty 
stream  on  his  pink  silk  stockings.  The  injured  cavalier, 
laying  his  hand  threateningly  on  his  rapier,  scowls  at 
the  author  of  his  misfortune,  but  pursues  his  way  in 
silence,  while  Philip  recites,  in  a  tone  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  a  dozen  yards  off,  the  following  consoling  couplet : — 

"  Oh,  bear  me  to  the  paths  of  fair  Pall  Mall  ; 
Safe  are  thy  pavements  ;  grateful  is  thy  smell ! 

Those  who  have  seen  the  occurrence  enjoy  a  laugh  at  the 
expense  of  the  spattered  gentleman,  who,  however,  does 
not  deign  to  notice  Philip's  audacity  in  thus  making  him 
a  public  jest. 

"  Faith  !"  says  Sir  Harry,  "if  I  had  been  in  his  posi 
tion,  and  he  in  mine,  it  is  my  calm  opinion  that  he  would 
have  received  a  kicking  for  his  carelessness." 

Philip  laughing,  and  directing  his  attention  to  a  couple 
of  well-known  Whig  noblemen  who  are  conversing  to 
gether  a  short  distance  from  them,  says,  "  Harry,  drop 
a  few  yards  behind  me,  and  mark  the  row  I  '11  raise  in  St. 
James!" 

Accordingly,  Sir  Harry  lags  behind,  while  Philip  ad 
vances  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the  gentlemen  whom  he 
had  pointed  out,  and  with  a  few  prefatory  flourishes  he 
begins  to  sing  in  a  loud  voice  : — 

The  king  shall  hae  his  ain  again 

All  stop  and  turn  in  surprise  as  they  hear  this  trea 
sonous  refrain  sung  in  broad  day,  and  in  the  most  fre 
quented  part  of  the  park.  Still  Philip  continues  his 
song,  while  the  bewildered  Whigs  look  with  horror  on 
the  daring  gallant  who  thus  openly  defies  them. 

Sir  Harry  takes  himself  off  as  soon  as  he  sees  how 
matters  are  going,  and  he  is  now  ensconced  behind  a 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'8   CAREER.  161 

tree  at  some  distance  from  Philip.  The  crowd  is  rapidly 
thickening,  still  Philip  is  unmolested,  and  still  his  song 
is  heard.  But  now  cries  of  "Papist!  traitor!  rebel  1" 
begin  to  sound  from  some  of  the  angry  spectators.  Sud 
denly  the  crowd  opens  and  falls  back,  and  the  guard 
appears.  Their  captain  walking  straight  to  Philip, 
demands  his  sword,  and  informs  him  that  he  is  under 
arrest.  Philip  stopping  his  song,  exclaims,  "  My  sword  ? 
You  '11  get  it  in  your  vitals  if  you  interrupt  me  again !" 
and  making  a  grasp  at  its  hilt,  he  attempts  to  draw  it ; 
but  the  officer,  striking  his  hand,  knocks  off  Philip's  grip, 
and  drawing  it  out  himself,  he  commands  his  men  to 
"lay  hold  of  the  prisoner."  Philip,  seeing  the  utter 
futility  of  resistance,  spitefully  finishes  his  song,  and 
says,  half  to  himself  and  half  to  the  officer  of  the  guard — 

"  The  Earl  he  drew  out  half  his  eword ; 
The  guard  drew  out  the  rest !" 

Luckily  for  him,  the  justice  before  whom  he  is  taken 
happens  to  be  Jacobitish  in  his  principles,  and  has  a 
predilection  for  the  bonnie  king  who  never  got  his  own 
again ;  so  that  he  is  merely  reprimanded  and  mulcted  in 
the  sum  of  five  guineas  for  creating  a  public  disturbance 
and  then  discharged,  neither  a  wiser  nor  a  happier  man, 
but  with  an  idea  that  home  is  the  right  place  to  favor 
with  his  presence  after  his  late  wise  actions, 

No  sooner  has  he  entered  than  her  ladyship  desires  his 
attendance  in  the  drawing-room,  and  thither  he  goes. 
The  occupants  are  my  lady  and  a  tall,  cadaverous, 
pedantic-looking  man,  whose  lantern  jaws  give  an  unna 
tural  length  to  his  pinched  face.  His  rusty,  cropped 
wig  is  pulled  down  too  much  in  front,  for  it  nearly  covers 
his  bushy  eyebrows  ;  his  dress  is  faded  and  sombre,  and 
it  has  scarce  an  inch  of  lace  or  edging  on  it  from  his 
collar  to  his  square-toed  shoes.  Poverty-stricken  learn- 

14* 


162  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

ing  betrays  its  presence  in  his  every  motion  or  gesture, 
in  every  seam  and  band  about  him.  Philip's  first 
thoughts  are,  "  This  must  be  Monsieur  de  Savatte. 
S'life!  what  a  scarecrow!  I  shall  have  to  dress  him 
decently  before  I  '11  be  seen  with  him  in  public.  What 
an  air  of  Calvinistic  morality  incrusts  his  antique  person  ! 
Even  his  buttons  are  precise  and  formal,  and  his  shoes 
are  actually  devoid  of  buckles  I  'Sooth,  I  have  an  aver 
sion  to  the  man  already." 

Her  ladyship  introduces  this  personage  to  Philip  as 
his  future  governor,  with  many  commendations  of  his 
learning  and  research,  which  he  acknowledges  by  a  stiff 
bow.  Philip  shakes  hands  with  M.  de  Savatte,  and  says, 
in  incisive  accents,  "  Monsieur  de  Savatte,  I  wish  you 
to  distinctly  understand  that  in  future  you  are  in  my 
employ  as  private  secretary,  not  as  governor.  I  object 
to  the  latter  title  decidedly." 

M.  de  Savatte  replies,  with  a  gesture  of  surprise,  "  My 
lord,  may  I  ask  why  the  worthy  title  of  governor  is  ob 
noxious  to  you  ?" 

Philip  says  blandly,  "  Of  course,  I  object  on  the 
score  of  veracity.  The  title  governor  would  be  an  un 
truth,  for  you  will  never  govern  me,  though  you  may 
advise  me." 

M.  de  Savatte  extends  his  hands  in  amazement  at 
hearing  such  rebellious  words  from  his  future  pupil,  and 
turns  to  his  mother  with  a  look  of  inquiry.  Greatly 
mortified  at  Philip's  words,  she  forces  a  smile  as  she 
replies,  "Philip  often  says  more  than  he  means;  he 
does — " 

But  Philip  ruins  her  palliative  by  saying,  "  In  this 
case,  though,  I  said  less  than  I  meant,  Monsieur!" 

A  lackey  entering  at  this  instant,  hands  a  letter  to 
Philip,  who,  bowing  apologetically  to  my  lady  and  M.  de 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON's   CAREER.  163 

Savatte,  goes  to  the  window  to  read  it.  He  looks  per 
plexed  and  mystified,  as  though  he  cannot  comprehend 
the  meaning  of  the  letter.  Finally  he  throws  open  the 
window,  and  calls  down  to  the  man,  who  awaits  his 
answer,  "  Here,  fellow,  take  your  precious  scrawl  back  to 
your  mistress,  and  tell  her  that  I  never  honor  dead  men's 
drafts.  Leave,  now,  and  never  trouble  me  again  about 
matters  of  which  I  am  as  ignorant  as  the  king  himself!" 
So  saying,  he  throws  the  letter  out  of  the  window,  and 
once  more  addresses  himself  to  his  future  tutor.  "  We 
start  to-morrow,  I  suppose.  Where  is  our  first  stopping 
place?  Paris,  or  Geneva,  or  where?" 

M.  de  Savatte  replies,  with  a  stiff  jerk  of  his  body, 
"  Geneva  was  mentioned  by  her  ladyship  as  the  best 
place  for  the  instillation  of  the  right  principles  into  your 
mind  1" 

"  Ah  I"  Philip  adds  with  an  incredulous  look. 

My  lady,  who  begins  to  fear  that  Philip's  insolence 
may  create  difficulties  which  will  be  hard  to  adjust  if  the 
conversation  is  prolonged,  now  bows  the  learned  man 
out,  with  an  injunction  to  be  all  ready  by  the  morrow, 
to  which  he  replies,  "  I  have  only  to  pack  a  few  books — 
my  classics  and  metaphysics,  and  then  I  am  ready." 

As  the  door  closes  after  him,  Philip  begins  to  criticize 
his  looks  and  his  speech ;  but  his  mother,  good-naturedly 
defending,  beseeches  her  son  to  pay  great  attention  to 
M.  de  Savatte's  teachings,  and  to  profit  by  his  learning. 

"  Rely  on  me,"  he  replies  with  a  sudden  twinge  of 
conscience :  "  Hereafter  I  '11  try  to  be  less  rackety  in  my 
actions.  I  fear  that  I  have  been  the  cause  of  many  a 
sad  day  and  night  with  you  1" 

She  replies :  "  My  son,  I  cannot  deny  it ;  but  if  you 
will  conduct  yourself  better  in  future,  you  will  be  the 
cause  of  more  happiness  to  me  than  ever  you  have  been 
misery." 


164  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

Philip  kisses  her  affectionately,  and  a  pang  of  remorse 
touches  him  as  he  sees  how  wan  and  worn  she  looks. 
Poor  woman !  as  she  kissed  her  darling  "  good-bye," 
the  next  day,  she  was  heavy  at  heart,  and  felt  an  indis 
tinct  foreboding  that  she  would  never  see  him  again. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE    OP   WHARTOiN'S   CAREER.  165 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Chremylus. — Phoebus  protect  us  !     Gracious  deities  ! 

Why,  what  the  mischief  has  this  fellow  met  with? 

Chremylus. — Hey  day  !  whom  have  we  here  ? 

ARISTOPHANES'  "PLUTtrs." 

PHILIP  and  M.  de  Savatte  land  in  safety  after  an 
uneventful  voyage,  during  which  Philip's  conduct  has 
been  most  exemplary,  and  has  agreeably  surprised  his 
governor,  who  thought  he  had  caught  a  tartar  when  he 
saw  him  for  the  first  time ;  and  in  the  letter  which  he 
wrote  to  Lady  Wharton,  the  tutor  gave  her  a  glowing 
account  of  her  sdn's  actions. 

They  do  not  tarry  long  in  any  of  the  towns  or  princi 
palities  through  which  they  pass,  except  in  a  small 
electorate  on  the  road  to  Hanover,  where  Philip  insists 
on  stopping  for  a  whole  day  despite  the  remonstrances  of 
M.  de  Savatte.  He  has  seen  a  pretty  German  flower- 
girl  pass  before  the  window  of  his  room,  and  has  at 
once  taken  a  violent  fancy  for  her ;  he  replies  to  his  im 
patient  governor,  "  Monsieur,  she  is  lovely,  divine !  I 
must  see  her  again  even  if  it  is  only  for  five  minutes ! 
Such^a  sensation  as  admiration  is  not  to  be  sneered  at, 
sir,  in  my  blase  condition." 

"  Eh  bien,  my  lord !  as  you  wish  ;  but  the  sooner  that 
we  arrive  at  Geneva,  the  better." 

Philip  finally  agrees  not  to  remain  here  longer  than  to 
day,  whether  or  no  he  sees  the  flower-girl  again.  He 
occupies  his  time  in  going  to  court  and  raising  a  flutter 


166  HIMSELF    HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

among  the  punctilious  princelings  and  the  court  dames 
who  are  all  agog  to  see  the  son  of  the  great  English 
nobleman,  whose  reputation  has  extended  even  to  this 
dull  region.  He  is  feted,  caressed,  and — greatest  honor 
of  all — decorated  with  an  order  of  knighthood,  which  he 
is  assured  by  the  courtiers  will  insure  him  respect  in  any 
quarter  of  the  globe,  to  which  modest  assertion  he  replies, 
"  My  lords,  I  do  not  value  the  ribbon  the  worth  of  a 
groat  on  that  account.  My  name  is  a  warranty  of 
respect,  as  you  all  know ;"  and  he  feels  a  trifle  offended; 
nevertheless,  he  is  quite  proud  of  his  decoration,  and 
wears  it  in  a  prominent  place  on  his  waistcoat  lapel. 

Philip  does  not  find  his  flower-girl,  however,  as  he  has 
forgotten  all  about  her  by  the  following  morning ;  M.  de 
Savatte  does  not  recall  her  to  his  memory,  and  they  set 
out  for  Hanover, "  England's  royal  nursery,"  arriving  in  the 
capital  safe  and  sound.  For  two  or  three  days  they  stop 
at  the  best  hotel  which  the  town  boasts,  when  they  receive 
an  invitation  from  a  German  nobleman,  who  places  his 
house  at  the  disposal  of  the  young  lord.  Philip  accepts 
the  invitation,  and  he  and  M.  de  Savatte  are  now  the 
guests  of  Count  von  Erschlief. 

Philip  and  his  host  are  together  in  a  bright,  sunny 
room,  which  faces  the  Platze,  whose  linden  trees  are 
agreeable  to  the  eye  and  fragrant  to  the  smell.  In  gut 
tural  German,  Yon  Erschlief  questions,  "  How  are  poli 
tics  in  England,  my  lord?  The  mails  are  so  irregular 
that  I  am  often  behindhand  with  outside  news  ?" 

In  his  own  estimation,  the  count  is  a  great  politician 
. — skilful,  sapient,  and  shrewd,  but  in  truth  he  is  as 
dunderheaded  a  German  as  ever  waded  through  musty 
tomes  of  metaphysics  or  dabbled  in  abstruse  philosophies. 
He  is  short  and  stout,  and  his  fat  cheeks  fall  in  unctuous 
layers  from  his  lacklustre  eyes  to  his  neck.  M.  de  Sa- 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE  OP   WHARTON'8   CAREER.  1GT 

vatte  is  in  the  back  part  of  the  room,  where  stands  a 
small  library  of  books  and  MSS.,  and  he  is  so  absorbed 
With  its  treasures  that  he  ignores  everything  else. 

"  My  dear  count,"  replies  Philip  with  a  mischievous 
look,  "  I  am  rather  ignorant  of  affairs  in  England  at 
present  myself;  but  it  is  confidently  reported  that 
Madame  Robethon  is  in  high  favor  with  his  majesty, 
and  moreover  that  she  has  turned  high  Tory,  i'faith  1" 

The  count  stares  at  him  in  surprise,  and,  after  a  mo 
ment's  silence,  he  splutters  out,  "  Mein  Gott !  is  it  so  ? 
This  is  news  indeed !"  To  which  Philip  nods  affirma 
tively,  with  a  countenance  of  regretful  solemnity  and  a 
deep  sigh. 

To  fully  understand  the  ridiculous  nature  of  Philip's 
assertion,  it  is  necessary  to  know  that  Madame  Robethon 
is  a  Hanoverian  lady  of  low  rank,  who  has  a  body  so 
squat  and  a  voice  so  disagreeably  coarse  and  croaking, 
that  she  has  been  christened  at  court  by  the  cognomen 
of  Madame  Grenouille.*  Her  principles  are  "Whig  to  a 
proverb.  Taking  his  departure,  after  the  above  astound 
ing  intelligence,  Philip  leaves  the  count  in  a  most  un 
enviable  state  of  mind  on  account  of  the  vexatious  aspect 
of  affairs  in  London. 

M.  de  Savatte  has  remained  so  absorbed  in  the  trea 
sures  he  has  found,  as  to  miss  entirely  the  conversation 
which  has  taken  place  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
Philip  looks  towards  him  and  smiles  at  his  rapt  gesticu 
lations.  The  tutor  is  grasping  in  both  hands  an  immense 
vellum-bound  folio,  which  is  protected  at  the  corners  with 
wide  strips  of  tarnished  brass  ;  he  has  not  taken  the  trou 
ble  to  go  to  the  table  and  lay  it  there  for  easy  inspection, 
but  he  has  placed  his  right  foot  on  his  left  knee,  thereby 
forming  a  projection  on  which  the  folio  reclines,  and  he 

*  Frog. 


168  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

cranes  his  neck  in  a  painful  manner  in  order  to  peruse 
the  top  lines.  His  countenance  is  serious  and  earnest. 
"  Right,  right,"  he  exclaims ;  "  Cato  in  his  time  knew  of 
three  kinds  of  myrtle — to  wit,  the  white,  the  black,  and 
the  Conjugala,  so  called  haply  of  wedlock  or  marriage, 
and  peradventure  it  may !"  Philip  leaning  over  to  see 
what  it  is  that  interests  him  so  much,  reads  on  the  top 
line,  the  title :  "  Plinie's  Naturall  Historic." 

"  Parbleu,  Monsieur !  Plinie  seems  to  engage  both 
your  eyes  and  ears.  I  have  romanced  most  wonderfully 
for  the  last  half  hour,  and  have  not  been  once  corrected!" 

The  studious  pedant  raises  his  head  in  bewilderment, 
blushes  and  apologizes :  "  My  lord,  pardon  my  rude 
ness,  I  pray  you.  I  was  so  interested  that  I  recked  not 
of  time  or  place  !" 

"  All  right,"  Philip  carelessly  replies ;  "  I  feel  as  though 
.1  should  enjoy  a  promenade  to-day.  The  weather  is 
glorious.  Will  you  accompany  me  ?" 

The  tutor  replies,  "  My  lord,  your  wishes  are  my  com 
mands  1" 

"Provided  the  wishes  are  of  the  right  sort!"  adds 
Philip. 

Monsieur  pays  no  attention  to  this  remark,  but 
launches  at  once  into  enthusiastic  praise  of  Pliny  and 
his  works,  proceeding  in  learned  jargon  to  explain  his 
system  until  Philip  impatiently  tells  him  to  drop  the  sub 
ject  and  walk  out  with  him. 

Whilst  they  are  out,  Philip  casts  his  eye  on  a  fine 
English  stallion,  whose  coat  is  as  glossy  and  smooth  as 
satin  and  as  black  as  ebony.  The  rider  bestrides  the 
horse  with  the  ease  and  grace  of  a  practised  horseman, 
extorting  an  exclamation  of  pleasure  from  Philip,  who 
appreciates  his  thorough  command  over  the  animal. 
Regardless  of  his  total  ignorance  of  the  equestrian, 
Philip  advances  towards  him  and  raises  his  hat,  a  salu- 


OE,  PIIILIP  DUKE  OP  WHARTON'S  CAREER.        169 

tation  which  the  rider  returns,  at  the  same  time  checking 
his  horse. 

"  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons,  sir,  for  this  intrusion," 
says  Philip ;  "  I  am  Lord  Wharton  of  Rathfarnham  and 
Catherlough." 

"  And  I,  my  lord,"  replies  the  stranger,  "  am  Sir 
Geoffrey  Mountairy." 

Philip  resumes  in  an  abrupt  manner,  "  Sir  Geoffrey,  I 
have  a  desire  to  purchase  your  horse.  It  pleases  me 
mightily.  Will  you  sell  it  ?" 

"  Really,  my  lord,"  Sir  Geoffrey  replies,  taken  aback 
at  the  strange  proposal,  but,  as  he  is  rather  reduced  in 
circumstances  at  present,  willing  to  dispose  of  the  animal 
if  a  good  price  were  offered;  "hitherto  the  desire  has 
never  entered  my  mind,  nor  do  I  particularly  wish  to  sell 
him ;  but  if  you  will  promise  to  treat  him  well,  I  may 
be  induced  to  part  with  him  I" 

Philip  hurriedly  replies,  "  I  will  give  you  any  sum 
you  may  deem  him  worth — five  hundred  guineas !" 

Sir  Geoffrey,  rejoicing  at  the  mention  of  so  large  a  price, 
closes  with  the  offer  at  once. 

M.  de  Savatte  in  vain  argues  and  expostulates.  Philip 
is  deaf  to  reason,  and  tells  his  tutor,  with  a  sprinkling  of 
oaths,  "  I  will  have  the  horse,  cost  what  it  may  1"  and 
resumes  to  Sir  Geoffrey :  "  Send  him  to  Count  von  Ersch- 
lief  's,  and  I  will  give  you  a  draft  on  London." 

Sir  Geoffrey  replies  that  he  will  go  thither  at  once,  if 
Philip  so  wishes ;  to  this  proposition  Philip  agrees,  and 
he  hurries  his  angry  governor  off  home  again  to  await 
the  distinguished  arrival. 

In  due  time  the  stallion  comes,  and  of  course,  receives 
its  meed  of  admiration  and  praise.  The  count  is  highly 
pleased  with  him,  and  declares  that  it  is  a  horse  fit  for 
the  Czar,  an  opinion  in  which  Philip  concurs. 

Philip  is  in  his  room  glancing  through  an  abstruse  work 
15 


1TO  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

on  the  law  of  nations,  which  he  comprehends  as  thorough 
ly,  after  two  or  three  industrious  readings,  as  an  ordinary 
mind  would  after  a  month's  hard  study;  for  with  a 
memory  wonderfully  retentive,  he  combines  reasoning 
faculties  of  no  common  order.  Throwing  the  book  from 
him  with  a  disdainful  gesture,  he  exclaims,  "  Tut !  Sa 
vatte  told  me  to  devote  at  least  a  day  to  the  study  of  the 
polemical  introduction.  Ah,  ha !  I  would  wager  heavy 
odds  that  I  already  know  his  theories  better  than  him 
self  1  when  he — Eh?  come  in!"  he  cries  in  response  to  a 
low  tap  at  the  door. 

M.  de  Savatte"  enters  with  a  lugubrious  expression  on 
his  dried  features.  He  holds  in  his  hand  a  letter  whose 
edging  is  black  an  inch  deep — a  sign  that  death  has 
robbed  some  one  of  a  friend  or  a  relative.  Philip  turns 
a  trifle  pale  as  he  takes  the  letter,  and  when  he  sees  his 
own  quarterings  on  the  black  seal,  it  almost  falls  through 
his  trembling  fingers.  M.  de  Savatte  considerately 
leaving  him  alone,  softly  closes  the  door  after  his  exit. 
Philip  reads  a  few  lines,  and  his  hand  crushes  the  paper 
with  a  convulsive  grasp. 

"  Mother,  mother  1  I  am  all  alone  now !  0  God !  Why 
did  you  die?" 

His  tears  patter  on  the  paper  thick  and  fast  as  he  re 
sumes  the  perusal:  "Your  property  will  be  taken  in 
charge  by  trustees  appointed  as  by  law.  You  will  be 
allowed  an  income  of  £2000  per  annum,  until  you  are 
of  age !"  "  Trustees,  eh  ?  cent  per  centums,"  he  mut 
ters;  "a  charge  of  twelve  shillings  for  their  care  of  a 
guinea ! — Mother !  mother  I"  he  cries  in  a  savage,  bitter 
manner !  "  A  curse  on  the  fate  which  robbed  me  of 
you !  Mother  is  dead  ?  dead  ?  My  head  whirls  so  I  can 
not  comprehend  1" 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

He  awakes  next  morning  gloomy  and  taciturn.     M. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          171 

de  Savattc  observes  his  moodiness,  and  justly  ascribes 
it  to  the  ill  news  which  he  has  received,  for  a  document 
has  been  sent  to  him  from  the  trustees  authorizing  him 
to  retain  his  position  as  tutor  to  his  lordship.  At  break 
fast  few  words  pass  between  them,  but  when  Philip  has 
finished  he  says,  in  a  low  voice, "  Monsieur,  to-day  I  begin 
a  new  course  of  life.  I  shall  eschew  Toryism,  and  be  the 
Protestant  which  my — which  I  ought  to  have  been  1" 

Monsieur  nods  assentingly,  and  with  rather  a  mysti 
fied  air,  for  he  has  not  known  Philip's  proclivities  for 
Jacobitism  and  the  Scarlet  Lady. 

All  the  morning  Philip  is  obedient  and  attentive  to 
the  instructions  of  his  really  talented  tutor,  but  towards 
evening  he  becomes  the  same  irrepressible  pupil  as  before, 
and  instead  of  working  out  some  knotty  problem,  or 
construing  some  difficult  passage,  laughs  the  questions 
away  with  a  clever  pun,  or  an  amusingly  inappropriate 
question,  causing  his  troubled  tutor  a  world  of  thinking 
to  answer. 

Early  the  following  day  they  depart  for  Geneva, 
where  Philip  is  to  remain  until  he  shall  have  completed 
his  education. 


172  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Clean. — With  all  speed  I  fly — 


SOPHOCLES. 


Clean. — One  word  at  parting — I  have  left  your  service. 
Who  follows  me,  believe,  will  prove  a  knave 
Still  greater  than  myself. 

ARISTOPHANES. 

PHILIP  is  far  better  pleased  with  his  new  quarters  than 
he  thought  he  would  be.  At  present  he.  is  lazily  saun 
tering  through  the  jeweller's  region  in  company  with  M. 
de  Savatte,  and  he  examines  with  great  interest  the  rare 
workmanship  which  is  displayed  in  their  watches,  rings, 
and  bracelets.  Gennaro  Lemontri's  shop  he  admires 
most  of  all,  and  in  return  for  Gennaro's  kindly  attention 
to  him  during  his  inspection  of  the  trays  of  costly  gems, 
Philip  purchases  three  tiny  watches,  beautifully  chased 
and  enamelled,  and  seven.or  eight  sparkling  rings,  besides 
various  other  knicknacks,  amounting,  as  the  bill  declares, 
to  850  guineas  and  15  shillings,  in  English  money.  Gen 
naro  generously  throws  off  the  latter  item,  and  Philip, 
giving  him  an  order  for  the  amount,  requests  him  to  send 
the  purchases  to  his  lodgings. 

Philip  surveys  the  rapid  torrent  of  the  Rhone,  as  it 
dashes  under  the  bridges  connecting  the  several  parts 
of  the  town,  with  a  vivid  appreciation  of  the  beatity  of 
the  scene.  The  glaciers  of  Chamouni,  and  Mont  Blanc 
the  mighty,  fill  him  with  indescribable  feelings.  M.  de 
Savatte,  whose  varied  knowledge  is  always  useful,  regales 
his  charge  with  romantic  stories  of  the  passes  of  the 
Tete  Noire,  and  the  dangerous  foot-paths  of  the  Col  du 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  113 

Geant,  which  lead  into  beautiful  Piedmont :  and  he  thrills 
him  with  graphic  accounts  of  the  terrible  crevasses  of  the 
Mer  de  Glace,  that  are  so  deep  and  green  and  cold. 

Philip  thinks  that  he  would  like  to  live  here  forever, 
and  he  is  sure  he  will  never  tire  of  Geneva,  asking  him 
self,  "  Can  there  be  a  more  beautiful  place  in  all  the  world 
than  this  city  of  frozen  beauties  ?"  He  proposes  a  walk 
about  the  environs,  to  which  Monsieur  assents ;  before 
they  have  got  fairly  under  way,  they  are  joined  by  a  friend 
of  Philip's — Sir  Edgely  Warely — with  whom  he  has  be 
come  acquainted  among  the  riotous  crew  of  the  Mohocks, 
who  asks  permission  to  make  one  of  his  party,  a  request 
which  Philip  gladly  grants. 

Although  Sir  Edgely  has  openly  professed  Whig  sen 
timents  in  England,  he  has  been  viewed  with  suspicion 
by  that  party ;  indeed,  there  are  some  who  have  not 
hesitated  to  insinuate  that  he  maintains  a  treasonable 
correspondence  with  the  exiled  court,  and  that  he  is  a 
disciple  of  the  Scarlet  Lady.  These  charges,  however, 
have  never  been  substantiated,  and  as  he  is  clever,  witty, 
and  handsome,  he  has  always  mixed  in  tolerable  society. 
Mayhap  his  dexterity  with  the  rapier  and  his  quickness 
to  avenge  an  insult  or  a  slur,  have  tended  to  make  ques 
tioners  or  accusers  wary  in  their  actions. 

"  Are  you  in  Geneva  permanently,  my  lord  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replies  Philip.  "  This  is  my  resting-place  for 
a  year  or  so." 

"  Under  favor,  my  lord,  may  I  ask  who  is  M.  de  Sav — 
I  really  forget  his  name ;"  adding,  with  a  laugh,  "he  looks 
like  an  ossified  epitome  of  learning!" 

"  Oh !  M.  de  Savatte  ?     He  is  my  secretary !" 

After  a  short  conversation  on  minor  topics,  the  beauty 
of  the  surrounding  scenery,  and  the  odd  dresses  of  the 
Germans,  Sir  Edgely  says  carelessly,  but  with  a  quick, 
15* 


174  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

comprehensive  glance  at  Philip ;  "  Eh  1  my  lord,  oranges 
once  more  top  the  gallant  oak  I" 

Philip  replies  hotly,  "  Yes ;  poor  Jamie  met  a  crushing 
defeat  both  on  the  field  and  in  the  house,  when  two  such 
gentlemen  as  Derwentwater  and  Kenmure  were  eased  of 
their  heads  to  delight  a  pack  of  gaping  cursl" 

A  curious,  triumphant-like  smile  lights  up  his  compan 
ion's  face  as  he  replies,  "Ay,  my  lord.  When  King 
James  heard  the  news,  he  came  as  near  crying  as  a  king 
can." 

Philip  starts  as  he  hears  the  Pretender  called  by  his 
Jacobite  title,  and  says  musingly,  "  I  should  like  well  to 
go  to  Avignon  to  note  how  James  and  his  courtiers  com 
pare  with  our  head  and  his  creatures  at  home." 

"Compare!"  returns  Sir  Edgely;  "the  thought  is 
absurd !  England's  best  blood  is  with  his  sacred  majesty, 
and  all  that  are  chivalrous  and  brave  enough  are  with 
their  true  king  awaiting  but  an  opportunity  to  follow 
him  to  his  stolen  kingdom,  there  to  reap  the  reward  of 
their  loyalty  and  affection ;  and  those  who  have  cringed 
to  the  Dutch  glutton  and  his  vrows  shall  be  banished  the 
kingdom  root  and  stock !" 

M.  de  Savatte,  who  has  been  engaged  in  the  examina 
tion  of  some  pieces  of  rock  or  spar  a  few  yards  away, 
catching  a  few  words  of  Sir  Edgely's  reply,  bustles 
towards  his  pupil,  fearful  lest  the  stranger  may  be  a 
Jacobite  agent  on  the  lookout  for  converts.  Sir  Edgely 
noticing  his  approach,  however,  adroitly  turns  the  con 
versation  to  more  general  topics,  and  descants  admir 
ingly  on  the  grandeur  of  the  scenery  and  its  chastening 
effect  on  the  mind. 

In  a  little  time  Sir  Edgely  announces  his  intention  of 
leaving ;  before  doing  so,  however,  he  slyly  slips  a  small 
packet  into  Philip's  hand  which  closes  on  it  immediately. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTOtt'S   CAREER.  1T5 

After  this,  he  returns  to  town,  whither  Philip  and  Mon 
sieur  soon  follow. 

Arriving  at  the  hotel,  Philip  waits  until  his  tutor  is 
engrossed  in  the  contents  of  a  musty  volume  called  "  A 
true  accounte  of  ye  Dryads  and  Hamadryads."  He  then 
takes  the  packet  from  his  pocket  to  inspect  it.  He  finds 
a  ribbon  within  it  about  six  inches  long ;  its  color  is  red, 
with  a  white  space  in  the  centre  whereon  is  depicted  the 
chevalier  holding  a  sponge  in  his  right  hand  to  signify 
that  if  he  ever  regains  his  kingdom,  he  will  wipe  off  the 
public  debt,  which  debt  is  the  cause  of  much  bitter  feel 
ing  in  England,  and  affords  a  great  rallying  cry  for  the 
Tories.  Around  the  sides  runs  the  legend  "For  our 
wronged  king  and  our  oppressed  country."  Attached 
to  the  silk  by  a  gold  pin  made  in  the  shape  of  an  oak- 
leaf,  is  a  white  cockade.  Philip's  heart  beats  quickly  as 
he  unpins  it,  and  he  exclaims,  with  a  glance  at  Monsieur, 
"  It  smells  Mar-ish !"  He  holds  it  in  his  hand  a  moment 
as  if  in  consideration.  Finally  picking  up  his  coat,  he 
puts  it  on.  Now  he  proceeds  to  attach  the  cockade  to 
the  right  breast,  pinning  the  ribbon  on  his  inner  coat. 
Thus  attired  he  consults  the  glass.  The  adornments 
do  become  him !  The  pink  lapels  of  his  waistcoat  do 
not  accord  with  the  red  ribbon  as  well  as  they  might 
have  done  ;  but  taking  the  effect  all  in  all,  it  is  satisfac 
tory  ;  and  for  variety's  sake  he  avows  himself  high  Tory 
and  Jacobite. 

It  is  early  morning,  and  the  sun's  rays  scarcely  glint 
on  the  waters  of  the  Rhone.  Philip  leaves  his  room, 
and  walks  to  the  stable,  where  his  new  purchase  munches 
the  straw  in  lazy  contentment ;  stepping  into  the  stall, 
he  pats  the  stallion  soothingly  on  the  side.  "  Oho,  my 
beauty,  you  belong  to  a  Wharton  now.  To-morrow  you 
will  belong  to  even  a  greater  than  he — a  Stuart!"  The 
animal  whinnies  and  paws  as  though  he  understands  him, 


116  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

and  half  turns  his  head  to  lay  his  nose  on  the  shoulder 
of  his  new  master :  "  Yes,  to-day  decides  me.  I  '11  go  to 
Avignon,  and  leave  that  crusty  curmudgeon  of  a  pedant 
to  get  along  without  me.  Faith !  the  separation  will  not 
kill  him.  His  books  are  more  to  his  taste  than  I  am, 
parbleu !" 

Laughing  noisily  as  if  at  the  contemplation  of  a  good 
joke,  he  resumes :  "  I  '11  leave  him  a  companion  suited  to 
his  nature  i'  faith  I" 

He  steps  out  at  a  rapid  pace  as  though  he  suddenly 
bethinks  him  of  an  important  commission.  Yesterday 
he  saw  a  party  of  itinerant  Savoyards  who  had  with 
them  a  led  bear,  which  danced  and  capricoled  to  the 
rude  music  of  their  rustic  pipes ;  and  he  noticed  them 
as  they  entered  a  small  cabaret  in  the  lower  part  of 
the  town.  Towards  this  cabaret  he  goes.  He  opens 
the  door,  and  steps  inside,  to  the  surprise  and  joy  of 
mine  host,  who  seldom  sees  a  gallant  of  such  feather 
enter  his  humble  place ;  he  is  almost  too  overcome 
to  reply  to  Philip's  question,  "Are  the  Savoys  who 
exhibit  a  bear  about  the  streets  lodging  here?"  after 
a  short  pause,  he  replies,  "  Yes,  milord,  I  will  call  them ;" 
and  he  bawls  to  them  in  the  peasant  patois  to  come  down 
stairs  immediately  as  milord  wishes  to  see  them.  Turning 
to  Philip  he  asks  him  whether  the  bear  shall  come  also, 
to  which  he  replies  with  a  smile :  "  Of  course !  that  is  the 
animal  which  I  most  desire  too  see."  The  order  is  re 
peated,  and  shortly  Master  Bruin  is  heard  treading 
heavily  down  the  stairs,  and  he  flumps  into  the  bar  in 
company  with  his  masters. 

Philip  tells  them  that  he  wishes  to  purchase  their  ani 
mal,  but  they  are  so  sleepy  that  they  can  scarcely  com 
prehend  him.  However,  when  he  thrusts  a  handful  of 
guineas  in  the  hand  of  the  foremost  of  them,  and  grasps 
Bruin's  chain,  they  seem  satisfied,  for  they  nod  their  ac- 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  177 

quiescence  in  a  thankful  manner,  and  slowly  reascend  to 
their  sleeping  place. 

Philip  marches  triumphantly  along  the  still-deserted 
streets,  while  his  prize  follows  meekly  after,  his  long, 
scuffling  strides  compelling  Philip  to  proceed  at  a  mighty 
brisk  pace.  As  he  draws  near  to  his  lodgings,  he  calls  to 
one  of  the  three  lads  who  have  joined  him  on  the  way, 
and  tells  him  to  hold  the  animal  until  he  returns.  The.lad 
looks  at  Bruin  distrustfully,  but  as  the  bear  is  muzzled, 
and  appears  tolerably  peaceful,  he  agrees,  keeping  a  re 
spectful  distance  from  him  withal.  Philip  stepping  care 
fully  inside,  indites  the  following  polite  epistle  to  his 
unsuspecting  governor,  who  reposes  soundly  in  bed  and 
has  never  a  thought  of  the  scene  which  will  greet  him 
when  he  enters  the  beloved  library. 

"  Most  erudite  and  omniscient  governor :  No  longer 
able  to  stand  your  inquisitorial  ill-usage,  I  leave  you. 
However,  that  you  may  not  want  company,  I  have  left 
you  a  bear  as  the  most  suitable  companion  that  could  be 
picked  out  for  you. 

Your  long-bearing  pupil, 

PHILIP  WHARTON. 
To  M.  DE  SAVATTE." 

Philip,  chuckling  maliciously  as  he  folds  and  seals  it, 
lays  it  in  a  prominent  pigeon-hole  on  the  escritoire, 
where  Monsieur  will  be  sure  to  see  it  at  a  glance. 
Now  he  packs  his  most  portable  things,  and  puts  them 
under  his  arm ;  the  coat  and  waistcoat  which  he  wears 
are  those  that  are  so  loyally  decorated.  He  returns  to 
the  future  companion  of  Monsieur,  and  rewards  the  lad 
who  has  held  it  during  his  absence,  promising  him  an 
additional  gold  piece  if  he  will  lead  it  into  the  library 
and  leave  it  with  an  old  gentleman  who  will  enter  there 


ITS  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

in  a  few  minutes.  The  boy  gives  the  promise,  and  re 
ceives  the  gratuity. 

In  order  to  enjoy  the  joke  to  its  fullest  extent,  Philip 
stations  himself  at  the  latticed  window  of  the  library. 
He  knows  Monsieur's  regularity  in  his  movements,  and 
momentarily  expects  him  to  enter. 

"  S'  life  1  he  comes,"  cries  Philip. 

The  tutor  enters  and  gazes  at  the  note  with  inquiring 
eyes,  and  slowly,  deliberately  puts  on  his  horn-rimmed 
spectacles.  Breaking  the  seal,  he  examines  the  writ 
ing;  his  brow  knits,  and  his  lips  compress  and  open 
alternately.  Turning  around  as  if  at  some  interruption, 
he  opens  the  door :  Philip  almost  chokes  with  laughter 
as  he  sees  him  jump  back  in  affright.  The  grinning 
urchin  leads  the  bear  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
before  its  astonished  occupant  has  a  chance  to  speak 
to  him  he  is  gone.  Monsieur  looks  first  at  his  shaggy 
guest  and  then  at  his  letter,  while  Bruin  rears  himself  on 
his  hams,  and  rubs  his  ears  and  his  nose  with  a  comical 
clumsiness ;  Monsieur  compromises  matters  by  entrench 
ing  himself  behind  the  wide  table  and  keeping  a  wary 
eye  on  the  enemy  whilst  he  reads  the  letter.  Philip  can 
surmise  what  his  sensations  are  by  the  varied  expressions 
of  his  face  during  the  perusal,  and  he  enjoys  the  affair 
hugely. 

"  Sapristi !  I  must  decamp,  or  else  I  '11  be  caught,"  he 
mutters,  and  with  a  farewell  look  at  his  governor,  he 
repairs  to  the  stable  where  his  stallion  "  King  Jamie"  is 
ready  saddled  and  bridled. 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  179 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Saladin. — Here  is  a  windfall,  truly !  Is  there  more 
To  come  ? 

LESSING'S  "NATHAN  THE  WISE." 

Withal  the  king 

With  his  thin,  anxious  face  and  pale, 
Sat  leaning  forward  through  the  tale, — 

MORRIS'  "THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KINO." 

PHILIP  is  at  present  wandering  alone  through  the 
streets  of  Lyons  in  order  to  have  a  look  at  anything 
amusing  or  interesting,  for  wherever  he  goes  he  invari 
ably  sees  everything  that  is  worth  seeing;  and  as  he 
has  heard  of  the  ancient  Chapel  de  Notre  Dame  de  Four- 
vieres,  he  determines  to  have  a  survey  of  it  ere  he  leaves 
the  city.  This  chapel  is  not  remarkable  for  its  grandeur 
or  beauty ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  very  plain  and  modest ; 
its  richly  stained  windows  alone  redeem  it  from  a  charge 
of  ugly  bareness. 

Philip  stands  in  front  of  the  light-flooded  altar  and 
takes  in  at  a  glance  all  the  gorgeous  paraphernalia  of 
the  Romish  creed ;  and  a  feeling  of  solemnity  and  awe 
strikes  his  senses ;  yet  vague,  troubled  doubts  rise  in  his 
mind  at  the  sight,  and  the  prejudices  of  other  days  surge 
in  his  hea'rt. 

He  turns  to  leave,  but  a  sudden  change  in  his  feelings 
decides  him  to  remain,  and  kneeling  reverently  before  the 
altar  he  breathes  a  prayer — it  is  his  first  in  the  house  of 
the  Pontiff  of  Rome.  He  rises  and  seats  himself  on  one 
of  the  low  stools  which  stand  near  the  confessional.  "  I 
wonder  if  my  mother  looks  down  on  me  now  ?  If  so, 


180  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

she  will  think  I  am  a  most  dutiful  son ;  Jacobite  and 
Papist — the  one  from  principle,  the  other  from  fancjr  or 
— conviction  ?  At  all  events  the  one  seems  to  have  led 
to  the  other,  so  that  I  '11  e'en  call  it  a  sequence  of  con 
sequences."  Hearing  a  footstep  behind  him,  he  looks 
around  to  see  who  the  new-comer  is ;  it  is  Sir  Edgely 
Warely. 

"My  dear  fellow!"  cries  Philip,  "on  my  life  I  am 
glad  to  see  you !  However  did  you  manage  to  scale  this 
holy  height  ?" 

Sir  Edgely,  who  looks  as  surprised  as  Philip,  replies, 
"  Well,  my  lord,  I  chanced  to  be  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  so  I  thought  I  would  pay  Notre  Dame  a  visit,  and 
recite  a  few  pater  nosters  for  the  benefit  of  my  soul!"  as 
.he  finishes,  he  glances  at  the  decorations  pinned  on 
Philip's  coat.  Philip  notices  the  direction  of  his  glance, 
and  says :  "  Let  me  thank  you  for  these,  Sir  Edgely ;" 
and  he  points  to  the  ribbon  and  the  cockade.  Sir  Edgely 
starts  as  if  surprised,  and  exclaims,  "  My  lord,  I  was 
sure  that  your  heart  was  true  to  his  majesty !  Do  you 
intend  to  go  to  Avignon,  where  the  court  is  to  be  held  for 
the  present?" 

Philip  looks  perplexed  as  he  answers,  "  In  truth,  I 
know  not  how  he  would  receive  the  son  of  the  great 
Whig  leader  !  No,  I  will  not  go.  I  '11  write  a  letter  to 
him,  and  proffer  my  allegiance !  Sir  Edgely,  do  you 
intend  to  go  there  ?  If  you  do,  let  me  beg  you  to  be  my 
messenger." 

"  I  am  going  thither,"  he  replies. 

"  Good !  You  will  take  a  stallion  which  I  have  bought 
especially  for  his  majesty,  and  present  it  to  him  with  my 
compliments  ?" 

Sir  Edgely,  eagerly  replies,  "  My  lord,  I  am  only  too 
glad  to  be  able  to  oblige  you.  I  will  set  out  at  once." 

Philip   replies,  "  We  must   first  retrace  our  steps  to 


Oft,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WIIARTON'S   CAREER.  181 

town,  and  I  will  write  the  letter ;  then  off  you  go  with 
lightning  speed  to  our  gracious  master  1" 

Philip  writes  the  letter,  and  the  Jacobite  agent  sets 
out  post  for  Avignon  to  carry  in  the  adherence  of  this 
most  important  ally.  Philip  awaits  an  answer  in  great 
impatience,  and  can  scarcely  sleep  all  night.  The  next 
day  he  is  notified  that  a  gentleman  is  awaiting  him  in  the 
bar-room.  He  dresses  himself  in  the  violet-satin  suit 
which  is  slashed  with  amber-colored  silk  and  heavily 
laced,  attaches  the  ribbon  and  cockade  to  his  breast, 
takes  a  final  look  in  the  glass  to  curl  his  embryo  mous 
taches  properly,  and  then  walks  down  stairs  in  a  flutter 
of  excitement  to  see  the  royal  emissary.  He  observes  a 
tall,  broad-shouldered  cavalier  who  is  attired  quite  as 
gayly  as  himself,  and  who  is  resting  one  arm  on  the  oaken 
bar,  while  the  other  clasps  the  waist  of  the  pretty  serv 
ing-maid,  whose  face  is  as  red  as  a  peony.  He  is  speak 
ing  to  her  in  the  French  patois,  and  calls  her  by  many 
fond  names.  He  turns  as  Philip  enters,  and  favors  him 
with  a  haughty  stare,  which  is  returned  with  one  even 
haughtier  and  more  insolent;  but  the  girl  explains 
matters  by  saying,  "Milord  Wharton — Milord  Win- 
ton!" 

The  stranger's  attitude  changes  at  once ;  extending 
his  hand  to  Philip,  he  says,  "My  lord,  allow  me  to 
apologize  for  my  boorish  conduct ;  for  which  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself.  My  name  is  George  Seton,  Earl 
of  Winton." 

Philip  is  pleased  at  James'  condescension  in  sending 
a  peer  to  meet  him,  and  he  cordially  responds  to  the 
compliments  which  Seton  delivers  with  the  grace  and 
affability  for  which  his  lordship  is  noted.  His  face  is  a 
picture  of  careless,  jovial  good-humor  and  nonchalance  ; 
his  tawny  moustaches  surmount  a  mouth  that  is  deli- 
16 


182  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

cate  enough  for  a  woman ;  and  his  eyes  betoken  a  cheery, 
hopeful  disposition.  Mad  George,  as  he  is  called  in  Lon 
don,  for  his  many  odd  freaks  and  escapades,  engaged  in 
the  last  insurrection  in  England,  and  was  sentenced  to 
death  despite  the  clever  defence  which  he  made,  and  the 
manifold  tricks  by  which  he  tried  to  evade  the  law. 
During  his  trial,  the  high  steward  Lord  Cowper,  having 
overruled  his  casuistical  objections  with  much  asperity, 
he  replied  with  scornful  emphasis,  "  I  hope  you  will  do 
me  justice,  and  not  make  use  of  Cowper-law ;  as  we  say 
in  our  county — hang  a  man  first,  and  then  judge  him !" 
He  managed  to  escape,  however,  by  sawing  the  bars  of 
his  cell  with  a  file  which  one  of  his  light-o'-loves — a  Mis 
tress  Wilsome — threw  into  his  window  at  midnight,  after 
the  warden  had  gone  his  rounds.  Before  the  insurrec 
tion  he  had  lived  for  some  time  with  a  blacksmith  in 
France  in  the  capacity  of  bellows-blower  and  odd-jobber; 
and  during  tnat  time  he  did  not  hold  the  slightest  com 
munication  with  his  family,  nor  did  he  send  for  a  penny 
of  the  vast  revenues  which  he  inherited,  and  which  are 
now  confiscated  by  the  government. 

Philip  plies  the  emissary  with  questions  relative  to  the 
chevalier  and  his  surroundings,  waiting  impatiently  for 
him  to  disclose  the  royal  message  with  which  he  has  been 
intrusted. 

"  My  lord,"  says  Seton,  "  his  gracious  majesty  has 
done  me  the  honor  to  appoint  me  as  your  conductor.  He 
has  expressed  his  royal  desire  to  see  you  at  court ;  and 
has  also  authorized  me  to  express  to  you  his  thanks  for 
the  superb  horse  which  you  presented  to  him.  If  you 
are  ready  to  set  out,  we  may  as  well  be  off  for  Avignon 
at  once." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  cries  Philip,  joyfully. 

James  reclines  in  his  chair  of  "state  with  dignity  and 
grace,  and  as  he  extends  his  hand  for  his  new  adherent 


OB,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S  CAREER.  183 

to  kiss,  he  looks  a  proud  Stuart  from  head  to  foot. 
Philip  rises  at  his  request,  and  makes  a  low  obeisance, 
retiring  backward  until  he  stands  by  the  side  oi  the 
Earl  of  Wiiiton,  who  is  engaged-  in  a  serious  flirtation 
with  Mistress  Arual  Dolling,  a  beauty  of  sixteen  sum 
mers,  who  has  been  spoiled  and  petted  until  she  is  as  im 
perious  and  exacting  as  an  eastern  despot.  Her  figure 
is  small,  but  plump,  and  in  all  her  motions  she  is  as 
graceful  as  a  fawn.  Her  complexion  is  bright  and  fair, 
and  she  owns  a  pair  of  azure  eyes  which  swim  in  co 
quettish  expressiveness.  On  the  left  side  of  her  dim 
pled  chin  are  two  round  patches,  and  the  curled,  pouting 
lips  above  seem  made  expressly  for  love's  kisses  to  die 
upon. 

Philip  is  introduced  to  her,  and  at  once  the  fickle  beauty 
bestows  all  her  attention  upon  him,  shamefully  neglect 
ing  "  Mad  George,"  who  lifts  his  eyebrows,  and  smiles 
deprecatingly,  as  if  to  say,  "  All  right — as  you  please — 
it  is  your  nature,  and  you  cannot  help  it !"  Philip  exerts 
himself  to  please  her ;  and  his  well-modulated  voice,  his 
wit,  and  his  vivacity  keep  her  in  a  state  of  piqued  plea 
sure  and  half-admiration  of  a  man  who  dares  to  cross 
words  with  her,  and  even  come  out  the  victor,  while  pro 
testing  his  defeat,  and  begging  for  quarter.  It  seems  that 
her  laughter  disturbs  his  majesty,  for  he  taps  significantly 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  contracts  his  brow  in  a  frown. 
Hiding  her  face  behind  her  sandal-wood  fan,  she  makes 
a  roGue"  of  defiance  at  him,  which  amuses  Philip  beyond 
measure.  "  S'life !"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  am  so 
angry  at  your  le*ze-majestd  that  I  must  e'en  let  Seton 
into  the  affair;"  turning  to  the  earl,  who  has  been 
scanning  the  assembled  demoiselles  and  courtiers  with  a 
critical  eye,  he  says,  "  Come,  my  lord,  you  desolate  us 
by  turning  your  back  on  us  so  coldly.  Give  Mistress 
Dolling  and  myself  the  benefit  of  your  conversation  1" 


184  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

"  Transfix  me !  but  I  '11  do  so  right  willingly ;  more  for 
my  own  sake,  though,  than  for  yours." 

James,  who  has  been  conversing  in  low  whispers  with 
Earl  Mar,  who  seems  to  have  pressed  some  subject  to 
which  he  is  averse,  finally  consents,  and  Mar,  after  beg 
ging  permission,  steps  to  Philip's  side,  and  whispers  in 
a  low  tone,  which  none  overhear  except  Seton  and  Mis 
tress  Dolling,  "  My  lord,  allow  me  to  unofficially  announce 
to  you  that  his  most  gracious  majesty  designs  to  confer 
upon  you  the  title  and  privileges  of  Duke  of  Northum 
berland.  I  have  the  honor  of  first  congratulating  your 
grace !"  shaking  his  hand  cordially  he  returns  to  James, 
who  has  watched  the  proceedings  from  under  his  eyes 
with  a  half-dissatisfied  look. 

Philip  is  overjoyed  at  this  new  sign  of  the  royal  favor, 
and  his  blood  tingles  with  loyalty  and  devotion  to  James, 
who  is,  in  this  instance,  wise  against  his  will,  through  the 
diplomacy  of  Mar,  who  sees  that  Philip  may  be  of  great 
use  in  furthering  the  designs  of  the  exiled  court.  Philip's 
whole  mind  now  centres  itself  on  the  idea  of  doing  some 
thing  to  show  that  he  appreciates  the  honor  which  has  been 
shown  him ;  but  all  at  once  this  idea  flies  to  the  winds  at 
the  recollection  that  he  has  left  his  prettiest  snuff-box  in  his 
room  at  Lyons,  and  he  determines  to  return  for  it  imme 
diately,  and  get  back  again  in  time  to  take  an  active  part 
in  Jacobite  politics  or  battles.  He  whispers  his  intentions 
to  Seton,  who  stares  at  his  affection  for  a  trifling  snuff 
box  ;  and  excuses  himself  to  Mistres  Dolling,  who  is  highly 
offended  that  he  can  leave  her  for  anything  in  the  world, 
so  high  an  opinion  does  she  entertain  of  herself. 

James  beckons  to  Seton  to  come  to  him,  an  order 
which  he  obeys,  and  stepping  behind  his  chair  he  awaits 
patiently  any  commands  that  may  be  given  him.  After 
finishing  his  discourse  with  Mar,  James  turns  his  atten- 


OR,  PHILIP  DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  185 

tion  to  Seton,  saying,  with  a  kindly  smile,  "  Where 
found  you  our  new  subject,  my  lord  ?"  t 

"  In  a  dirty  cabaret  in  the  lower  section  of  Lyons, 
your  majesty." 

"And  how  did  he  express  himself  at  our  message?" 

"  He  was  overjoyed,  your  majesty,  and  seemed  to  feel 
the  great  honor  bestowed  upon  him." 

James  nods  his  head  sagaciously,  and  says,  "  We  have 
finished  with  you,  my  lord."  At  this  Seton  retires  from 
the  presence  and  renews  his  flirtation  with  Mistress  Doll 
ing,  who  welcomes  him  with  an  enchanting  smile. 

James,  leaning  over  to  Mar,  inquires  t  "  Think  you  it  is 
possible  that  the  heroic  Winifred  of  Nithisdale  will  be  at 
our  court  to-morrow  ?  'Faith  we  would  like  to  see  the 
woman  who  is  so  ingenious  as  to  have  deceived  the 
veteran  gaolers  of  our  London  Tower !  Have  you  the 
particulars  of  the  affair  ?  It  is  said  that  you  have  re 
ceived  despatches  from  England  lately  containing  a  de 
tailed  account  of  her  husband's  escape?  We  would 
enjoy  its  recital." 

"  Your  majesty,  it  will  giv6  me  great  pleasure  to  tell 
all  I  know  of  the  subject,"  and  he  relates  his  story,  which 
reads  more  like  a  romance  than  a  stern  matter-of-fact 
recital,  in  which  a  gentle  head  was  saved  by  the  fearless 
devotion  of  its  owner's  wife — the  beautiful  Winifred — 
who  is  thus  described  by  one  who  saw  her :  "  She  is  deli 
cate  and  feminine  in  appearance,  and  her  hair  is  light- 
brown,  and  generally  powdered.  Her  eyes  are  large  and 
soft ;  her  features  regular,  and  her  complexion  is  fair  and 
pale." 

James  listens  with  great  attention,  and  as  he  reaches 
that  part  where  Winifred  travelled  to  Traquhair  to 
rescue  the  family  papers,  and  returned  safely  to  London 
with  them,  his  majesty  claps  his  hands  in  great  glee; 
but  when  he  hears  how  spiteful  the  king  was  towards  her, 

16* 


186  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

and  how  he  said  that  "  Lady  Nithisdale  did  whatever 
she  pleased  in  spite  of  him,  and  that  she  had  given  him 
more  trouble  than  any  woman  in  Europe,"  he  grinds  his 
teeth,  and  the  Stuart  frown  mantles  on  his  face.  "  The 
boor!"  he  exclaims;  "there  is  as  much  chivalry  in  him 
as  there  is  in  one  of  his  native  hogs !" 

"  Or  his  mistresses,"  adds  Mar. 

James  smiles  as  he  Answers,  "Ay !  neither  von  Schulen- 
berg  nor  Kilmanseck  can  boast  of  much  but  adiposity, 
idiocy,  and  the  hatred  of  our  loyal  subjects."  He  re 
mains  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  while  Mar  occupies  him 
self  in  running  his  fingers  through  his  towering  wig. 
"  Mar,  the  Duke  of  Argyle  is  said  to  be  tired  of  this 
Hanoverian  usurper  1" 

"  Your  majesty,  he  is  a  great  friend  of  the  Prince." 

"  Ergo,  an  enemy  to  his  father,"  adds  James. 

Mar,  laughing  low,  wonders  aloud  at  his  majesty's 
astuteness.  "  Your  majesty,  it  is  surmised  that  Walpole 
is  being  mightily  worried  by  my  Lord  Sundeiiand  and 
divers  others  at  court,  and  it  is  thought  that  he  will  resign 
ere  long,  and  take  his  tool  Townshend  along  with  him !" 

"  Ah !  I  did  not  know  of  that !"  replies  James,  and  he 
begins  to  count  the  beads  of  his  rosary,  and  his  lips  move 
quickly  as  he  recites  a  pater-noster  or  an  ave  Maria ;  the 
while  his  eyes  are  cast  devoutly  on  the  floor ;  suddenly 
he  ceases  his  devotions,  and  asks :  "  Where  is  Made 
moiselle  Delamour  ?  We  would  see  her."  And  again 
his  beads  occupy  his  attention,  while  Mar  goes  in  search 
of  the  notorious  and  beautiful  Desirette  Delamour,  a 
favored  mistress  of  James — and  only  a  few  of  his 
courtiers. 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  181 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"  Let  other  nice  lords  skulk  at  home  from  the  wars, 
Prank'd  up  and  adorn'd  with  garters  and  stars, 
Which  but  twinkle  like  those  in  a  cold,  frosty  night; 
While  to  yours  you  are  adding  such  lustre  and  light, 
That  if  you  proceed,  I  'm  sure  very  soon 
'Twill  be  brighter  and  larger  than  the  sun  or  the  moon." 

SWIFT'S  PAKODT. 

INSTEAD  of  returning  to  Avignon,  as  he  intended  when 
he  set  out  for  Lyons  to  regain  his  precious  snuff-box, 
Philip  bethinks  him  that  Paris  will  be  better  suited  for 
one  of  his  parts  and  acquirements ;  and  so  to  Paris  he 
goes.  His  first  act  of  wisdom  in  this  city  is  his  visit 
to  the  Queen  Dowager,  the  consort  of  James  the  2d, 
residing  at  St.  Germains,  surrounded  by  the  exiled  or 
disaffected  nobles  who  still  retain  the  idea  of  seating  the 
chevalier  on  the  throne  and  then  reaping  the  reward  of 
their  constancy.  The  papers  which  endow  Philip  with 
the  empty  title  of  Duke  of  Northumberland  have  been 
forwarded  to  him  from  Avignon,  and  under  that  title  he 
now  goes,  to  the  surprise  and  disgust  of  the  loyal  Eng 
lishmen  who  chance  to  be  in  Paris,  and  to  the  immense 
delight  of  the  opposing  party. 

He  takes  a  superb  residence  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Tuileries,  and  has  it  furnished  and  adorned  with  such 
lavish  extravagance  as  to  excite  comment  among  even 
the  spendthrift  Parisians,  who  fritter  and  gamble  their 
fortunes  away  on  the  whims  of  a  mistress  or  the  turn  of 
a  dice.  .  His  equipage  is  the  finest  in  town ;  for  out 
riders  he  has  two  negroes,  whom  he  calls  Mustapha  and 


188  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Mahomet,  in  ridicule  of  George's  back-stair  attendants. 
His  runners  are  considered  the  finest  and  best-winded 
men  inside  of  the  gates. 

Drawn  by  four  large,  black  stallions,  his  coach  conveys 
him  swiftly  down  the  Boulevard,  while  he  reclines  against 
the  cushions  in  an  easy,  but  studiously  graceful  attitude. 
Now  he  calls  to  the  driver  to  stop,  and  the  horses  draw 
up  with  a  clattering  din  before  the  door  of  Anatole 
Cherprix,  the  famous  dealer  in  pictures,  art  productions, 
and  articles  of  vertu.  Philip  has  noticed  in  his  window  a 
group  of  statuary — Circe  and  her  victim — which  he 
thinks  would  look  pretty  in  his  private  room ;  it  is  carved 
with  high  artistic  skill,  and  is,  as  Anatole  declares,  "  a 
perfect  gem." 

"  I  will  sacrifice  it  for  ten  thousand  francs,  milord. 
Shall  I  send  it  to  milord's  house  ?" 

Philip  replies,  "  Yes.  Send  it  before  night  to  la  maison 
Northumberland,  and  I  will  give  you  an  order  on  Lon 
don  ;"  returning  to  his  coach,  he  majestically  once  more 
displays  himself  to  the  admiring  Parisians  and  the  resi 
dent  English  as  he  retires  to  his  magnificent  abode. 

After  partaking  of  a  rich  lunch,  he  sallies  out  again  in 
quest  of  amusement  or  excitement  that  will  pass  away 
the  time  until  dinner.  As  he  proceeds  lazily  towards  the 
Tuileries,  he  feels  a  hand  laid  familiarly  on  his  shoulder. 
He  turns  quickly,  and  to  his  surprise  recognizes  Sir 
Edgely  Warely,  who  cries,  "  As  I  am  alive !  It  is  strange 
how  often  I  meet  your  grace !  I  was  wandering  about 
disconsolate  and  friendless,  when  I  thought  I  saw  your 
grace's  form — which  I  could  recognize  among  a  thousand 
— and  I  am  vastly  pleased  to  find  that  I  was  not  mis 
taken  in  my  surmise." 

Philip  is  flattered  and  pleased  with  Sir  Edgely's 
speech ;  moreover  he  is  glad  to  have  some  one  to  whom 
he  can  talk,  for  his  residence  in  town  has  been  so  recent 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S  CAREER.  189 

that  not  even  the  watchful  tuft-hunters  have  had  tune 
to  run  him  to  earth. 

"  Sir  Edgely,"  says  Philip,  in  cordial  tones,  tempered, 
however,  with  an  almost  imperceptible  condescension  of 
manner,  "  I  cannot  express  myself  in  suitable  terms  for 
the  pleasure  of  this  meeting." 

Sir  Edgely  bows  in  acknowledgment,  and  replies  in 
a  careless,  haphazard  manner :  "  How  would  your  grace 
like  to  call  on  my  Lord  Stairs  ?  He  is  at  home  now,  I 
am  certain!"  He  knows  that  Philip  will  visit  Stair 
before  long,  and  fearing  lest  he  should  be  regained  to  the 
Hanoverian  party,  he  determines  to  beard  the  lion  at  once, 
and  go  with  Philip  to  the  ambassador  in  order  to  coun 
teract  any  influence  which  that  oily  diplomat  may  at 
tempt  to  secure  over  his  actions  or  his  thoughts. 

Philip  replies  :  "  The  very  place  of  all  places.  I  have 
a  desire  to  see  his  excellency,  who,  they  say,  is  a  marvel 
of  good-breeding  and  astuteness.  I  promise  myself  a 
little  amusement  when  he  discovers  these  on  Whig  Whar- 
ton's  son,  eh?"  and  he  points  to  the  ribbon  and  the 
cockade ;  whereat  they  both  laugh  heartily,  and  Sir 
Edgely  praises  his  boldness  and  encourages  him  in  his 
foolish  intentions ;  for  he  would  like  nothing  better  than 
to  produce  a  complete  estrangement  between  Stair — who 
is  so  inimical  to  his  party— and  Philip. 

Their  names  are  announced,  and  they  are  ushered  into 
the  hall,  in  a  few  minutes  the  ambassador  descends  the 
stairs.  Polished  and  graceful  in  his  deportment,  his 
manners  are  complaisant  and  insinuating.  Welcoming 
Philip  with  great  warmth  and  cordiality,  he  condoles 
with  him  on  the  recent  loss  of  his  mother.  He  compli 
ments  him  on  his  good  looks  and  fine  appearance,  but 
purposely  neglects  to  call  him  by  his  new  title,  and 
Philip  is  so  charmed  with  his  conversation  that  he  does 


190  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

not  wish  to  raise  a  discussion  in  which  he  fears  he  would 
be  worsted. 

Not  so  Sir  Edgely,  for  as  Stair  addresses  Philip  as 
my  lord,  he  coughs  twice  or  thrice  in  a  very  significant 
manner,  and  as  he  finds  that  his  hints  are  unheeded  an 
angry  feeling  glows  in  his  breast  at  Philip's  lack  of  self- 
assertion. 

Stair  gives  Sir  Edgely  a  very  cool  welcome,  paying 
little  or  no  attention  to  him,  for  he  knows  him  to  be  a 
rank  tTacoTsite  and  a  partisan-hunter  for  the  Pretender. 
After  a  few  observations  relative  to  matters  at  home  and 
abroad,  Stair  sa'ys  to  Philip :  "  Your  father  was  a  true 
friend  to  his  country,  and  when  England  lost  him,  she 
had  one  great  man  the  less :  I  hope  and  trust  that  you 
will  follow  so  illustrious  an  example  of  fidelity  to  your 
prince,  and  affection  to  your  country,  by  treading  in  the 
same  steps  1" 

Philip,  averse  to  advice  under  any  circumstances, 
is,  in  this  case,  particularly  incensed  at  what  he  considers 
his  excellency's  impertinence  both  to  himself  and  his 
friend  ;  and  he  replies  in  a  sneering  tone  and  with  a 
spiteful  glance,  "  I  thank  your  excellency  for  your  good 
advice ;  and  as  your  excellency  had  also  a  worthy  and 
deserving  father,  I  hope  that  you  will  likewise  copy  so 
bright  an  original,  and  tread  in  all  his  footsteps." 

This  allusion  to  his  father's  disgraceful  share  in  the 
Glencoe  massacre,  and  his  remorseless  hatred  and  de 
struction  of  the  Macdonalds  of  that  ilk,  after  the  sub 
mission  of  their  chief  Mac  Ian,  causes  the  earl's  pale  face 
to  burn  with  mortification  and  rage ;  subduing  his  first 
impulse  of  revenge,  however,  he  replies  in  a  tone  which 
makes  Philip  almost  despise  himself  for  his  insolence  to 
one  so  much  older  than  himself.  "My  lord,  my  father 
did  what  he  thought  right  and  just,  and  it  "was  his  un 
fortunate  over  zeal  which  prompted  him  to  an  action,  at 


OE,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  191 

the  recollection  of  which  his  son  now  hangs  his  head  in 
shame.  My  lord,  I  thank  you  for  the  rebuke  conveyed 
to  me  so  gently." 

It  is  now  Philip's  turn  to  flush,  and  he  looks  so  shame- 
stricken  that  Stair  involuntarily  extends  his  hand  in 
token  of  forgiveness,  and  Philip  gripes  it  with  a  pressure 
which  is  a  better  apology  than  a  volume  of  words.  Sir 
Edgcly's  brow  lowers  as  he  sees  that  the  shrewd  diplomat 
has  thrust  home  a  wedge  which  may  split  his  design  to 
pieces,  and  he  bites  his  nether  lip  in  anger. 

Says  his  excellency,  "My  lord,  can  I  have  a  few 
minutes'  private  conversation  ?" 

At  these  words,  Sir  Edgely  seems  as  if  he  would  re 
monstrate;  but  if  he  so  intended,  he  wisely  controls 
himself. 

"  Certainly,  your  excellency,"  replies  Philip.  "  Excuse 
us  for  a  short  time,  Sir  Edgely." 

Stair,  leading  Philip  to  his  private  apartment,  re 
quests  him  to  be  seated,  and  continues :  "  Under  favor, 
my  lord,  are  you  aware  of  the  character  of  this  Sir 
Edgely  ?" 

Philip  demands  rather  warmly,  "  In  what  respect?" 

"  In  everything,  both  his  public  and  private  character  ?" 

Philip  replies,  "Well,  no!  I  met  him  in  London  a 
short  time  since.  He  seems  to  be  a  good-natured,  clever 
gentleman,  and  as  he  rather  courts  my  acquaintance,  and 
yet  is  neither  servile  nor  insolent,  I  have  taken  a  slight 
fancy  to  him !  As  for  his  public  character,  I  know  that 
he  is  greatly  attached  to  the  Chevalier :  small  blame  to 
him  for  that,  however." 

Stair  affects  not  to  notice  the  last  remark,  and  replies, 
"  My  lord,  he  calls  himself  Sir  Edgely  Warely ;  his  real 
name  is  plain  Edgely  Valentin;  and  unfortunately  he 
has  never  known  who  was  his  father.  Not  his  fault,  to 
be  sure ;  but  you  know  the  world's  opinion  in  regard  to 


192  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

these  things!  He  is  a  traitor  to  his  king,  and  a  spy 
and  inveigler  for  the  Pretender,  and  well  is  he  adapted 
for  his  offices,  for  he  is  crafty,  unscrupulous,  and  daring : — . 
three  qualities  that  make  him  a  dangerous  friend  and  a 
worse  enemy  1" 

Philip  is  so  astonished  at  these  revelations  that  he  does 
nothing  but  mutter  in  a  low  tone,  something  about 
"  insulting  his  friend — reparation  and  false  charges  ;" 
mutterings  which  Stair  ignores,  by  crossing  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  ostensibly  to  open  his  window. 

By  the  time  he  returns  Philip  is  more  composed,  and 
he  remains  sullenly  quiet,  while  his  face  is  flushed  and 
perplexed. 

"  If  the  question  is  not  offensive,  my  lord,  why  do  you 
wear  those  gewgaws  which  dangle  on  your  breast?" 

Philip  flushes  more  deeply  as  he  retorts,  "Your  excel 
lency  was  once  my  father's  friend,  or  .you  should  cer 
tainly  expiate  this  insult  to  my  king  on  the  field  of 
honor!"  and  bestowing  a  haughty  look  upon  him  Philip 
descends  to  Sir  Edgely  Warely,  or,  as  he  shall  be  called 
after  this,  Edgely  Valentin. 

Stair  bites  his  nails  in  vexation  as  the  young  "  quick 
silver"  disappears,  and  utters,  "  Honest  Tom,  without  his 
coolness !" 

As  Philip  descends  the  stairs,  he  makes  up  his  mind 
to  find  out  whether  or  no  the  ambassador's  accusa 
tions  are  correct,  so,  before  he  enters  the  reception 
chamber,  he  calls,  in  a  low,  indistinct  voice,  "  Valentin ! 
Edgely  Valentin !"  and  watches  the  effects  of  his  words. 
The  Jacobite  turns  in  an  instant,  and  casts  his  eyes  in 
every  direction  with  a  wild  look  in  them,  while  his 
trembling  lips  enunciate  in  a  thick  unnatural  voice, 
"Who  calls?" 

"  I !  Philip  Wharton,  you  forsworn  liar !  Go !  Never 
let  me  see  your  face  again ;  never  call  me  friend  again, 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  193 

or  I  '11  have  your  face  slit  so  that  your  father — excuse 
me,  your  mother — would  not  know  you  again.  'Tis  a 
pity  that  I  cannot  do  it  with  my  own  hand ;  but  a 
W  hart  on  never  stoops  to  cross  steel  with  a — "  He 
holds  back  the  last  epithet,  and  half-regrets  his  cruel 
words.  For  a  moment  Edgely  staggers  like  one  drunk, 
then  drawing  his  cloak  over  his  face,  he  walks  out  with 
staggering,  uncertain  steps. 

"  A  pest  on  my  scurrilous  tongue !  Poor  man ;  I  turned 
his  head  when  I  spoke  so  villainously  to  him ;"  and  he 
walks  home  with  a  slight  compunction  pricking  at  his 
heart. 

Philip  receives  a  message  from  the  ambassador  early 
in  the  day,  in  which  he  is  invited  to  call  and  be  presented 
at  court ;  so,  at  the  time  appointed,  he  dresses  himself 
with  elaborate  care,  and  orders  his  coach.  Stepping 
carefully  inside,  he  cries  out,  "  His  Excellency  the  Am 
bassador."  ^ . 

Stair  receives  him  with  as  much  graciousness  and 
affability  as  though  he  had  never  passed  a  disagreeable 
word  with  him ;  and  when  they  arrive  at  court  he  guides 
him  through  the  intricate  hallways  and  amuses  him  with 
descriptions  of  the  various  people  with  whom  he  will  be 
likely  to  be  brought  in  contact  during  the  presentation 
to  royalty. 

After  the  ceremony  is  over,  Stair  renews  his  character 
of  guide,  taking  Philip  to  all  the  parts  of  the  palace  that 
are  beautiful  or  interesting.  He  points  out  the  beauty 
of  the  pavilion  de  VHorloge,  and  tells  him  a  strange 
story  of  its  architects,  Delorme  and  Bullant,  who  were 
matches  in  impiety  and  blasphemy.  They  had  im 
piously  placed  a  statue  of  Catharine  de  Medici  on  the 
facade,  directly  over  another  of  the  Virgin  Mary ;  and 
just  as  they  were  sending  in  the  last  rivet  which  was  to 
hold  it  in  its  place,  a  thunderbolt  from  a  cloudless  sky 
17 


194  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

struck  them  both,  and  killed  them  immediately;  while 
the  statue  of  the  queen  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

They  are  promenading  the  vast  gardens  of  the 
Tuileries,  and  enjoying  the  pure  breeze  wafting  over 
the  clear  bosom  of  the  lovely  Seine.  Stair  is  saying, 
"  My  lord,  honor  me  with  your  presence  to-morrow !  I 
expect  to  have  quite  a  company  at  my  house,  most 
of  whom  are  either  talented,  witty,  or  beautiful;  and 
I  '11  take  my  oath  on 't  that  you  will  enjoy  yourself.  I 
shall  expect  you  as  my  guest  if  you  have  no  prior 
claims." 

"  Your  excellency  may  depend  on  me,"  replies  Philip ; 
*'  I  revel  in  the  anticipation  of  the  morrow." 

Stair,  who  has  business  within  the  palace,  now  excuses 
himself,  and  advises  Philip  to  look  about  him,  and  enjoy 
the  surrounding  scenery. 

"Edgely  Yalentin!  Umph!  the  man  is  clever  and 
unassuming.  'Tis  a  pity  he  cannot  speak  of  a  father; 
but  he  can  console  himself  with  the  fact  that  half  the 
world  is  in  the  same  quandary ;  the  only  difference  is 
that  some  know  it,  and  others  do  not." 

Philip  is  already  beginning  to  gain  many  friends  in 
Paris ;  for  his  fine  parts,  ready  wit,  and  especially  his 
reckless  expenditure  have  begun  to  produce  quite  a  good 
effect  in  the  courtly  circles  of  the  city.  He  is  known  to 
many  by  the  title  of  Le  Beau  Wharton,  and  if  the  story 
of  his  marriage  had  not  preceded  him,  he  would  have 
been  looked  on  as  a  godsend  by  intriguing  dowagers 
with  penniless  daughters.  As  it  is,  his  society  is  eagerly 
courted  by  many  of  the  wanton  beauties  and  profligate 
monseigneurs  who  make  up  the  celebrated  coterie  in 
which  the  influence  of  Ninon  de  1'Enclos  and  I'Abbe' 
Scarron  are  strongly  felt. 

Once  or  twice  he  has  endeavored  to  procure  an  inter- 


OB,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  195 

view  with  the  ci-devant "  La  Belle  Indienne,"*  who  buried 
herself  in  the  Convent  of  Saint  Cyr  on  the  dissolution 
of  Le  Grand  Monarque ;  but  his  attempts  have  been 
.fruitless,  and  in  his  chagrin  at  being  foiled,  he  perpe 
trates  the  following  couplet  on  her,  which  he  sent  in  to 
her  by  the  portress  : — 

Yes  !  lie  hidden  !  perverse  Indienne, 
You  scorn  of  women  and  love  of  men ! 


CHAPTER  XXYIII. 

Sittah. — How  now,  dear  Saladin,  what  play  is  this? 
Saladin. — Indifferent  ?  Yet  I  thought  it  good. 
Sittah. — For  me— 

LESsnra's  NATHAN  THE  WISE. 

STROLLING  oward  the  main  Boulevard,  Philip  joins 
in  with  the  crowd  of  essenced  fops  and  mincing  beaux 
who  hail  him  with  complimentary  protestations  and 
welcoming  smiles,  which  he  accepts  with  a  calm  con 
sciousness  of  his  right  to  such  attentions.  One  of  the 
nearest  fops,  a  Count  Be*tenoire,  says  to  him,  with  a 
flourish  of  his  cocked  hat,  which  he  carries  in  his  hand 
to  show  his  glossy  periwig,  "Ah-ha!  Your  grace  has 
heard  of  the  accident  that  occurred  to  his  Excellency, 
my  Lord  Stair  1" 

"Accident!"  replies  Philip.  "No,  I  have  not.  Tell 
me  all  about  it,  I  beg  of  you." 

The  Count  resumes :  "  Yoici !  Monsieur  Killmahl,  a 
young  English  surgeon,  who  came  here  to  study  in  our 
Hospital,  and  who  is  a  great  friend  to  your  King  James, 
had  occasion  to  pass  by  his  excellency's  door  an  hour 

*  Mme.  de  Maintenon,  the  instigator  of  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantes. 


196  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

or  more  ago,  and  irritated,  I  suppose,  by  his  enmity  to 
his  excellency's  master,  he  smashed  his  windows,  and 
nailed  a  placard  to  his  door,  on  which  was  written, 
'King  James  forever!  Death  to  the  Dutchman!!'  Of 
course  he  was  arrested,  and  Monsieur  Killmahl  is  now  on 
his  way  to  the  prison  of  Fort  1'Eveque,  where  he  will  have 
ample  time  to  cool  down  and  repent  of  his  rashness." 

Philip  is  amused  at  the  affair,  and  willingly  joins  in 
the  laugh  at  the  foolish  saw-bones.  Turning  to  Marechal 
Tiernan — an  Irish  officer  in  the  service  of  France — he 
says,  "  Mardchal,  give  me  the  aid  of  your  trusty  arm, 
and  I  will  at  once  repeat  M.  Killmahl's  performance. 
Then  we  shall  see  whether  they  dare  mention  Fort 
1'Eveque  to  me  or  not !" 

The  Marechal  smiles  at  the  oddity  of  the  proposal, 
and  answers,  "  I  advise  your  grace  by  all  means  to  give 
up  the  enterprise.  But  if  your  grace  is  resolved  to  exe 
cute  it,  I  beg  you  to  leave  me  out  of  your  party  ;  for  it 
is  a  kind  of  war-making  to  which  I  have  not  been  accus 
tomed." 

Philip  colors  slightly  at  the  imputation.  However, 
he  laughs  it  off  as  a  joke,  and  the  conversation  turns  on 
other  subjects. 

Betenoire  proposing  an  adjournment  to  the  Salon  of  la 
Comtesse  de  Petitscreve*,  a  notorious  gaming-hell  in  the 
fashionable  quarter  of  Paris,  the  suggestion  meets  with 
unanimous  applause,  and  thither  they  proceed. 

Madame's  mansion  is  aristocratically  situated,  and  all 
its  surroundings  are  au  fait.  The  "  Grand  Chambre" 
is  on  the  second  floor;  it  is  spacious  and  airy,  and 
richly  adorned  in  the  Louis  Quatorze  style.  The  walls 
are  divided  into  oval  sections,  in  each  of  which  is  a 
highly-colored  painting,  either  by  Watteau  or  after  him. 
Between  each  picture  are  four  delicate  clustered  pillars 
of  variegated  marble,  that  ascend  from  the  floor  to  the 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON's   CAREER.  197 

ceiling,  where  they  spread  into  the  rich  Corinthian 
apex.  The  vaulted  ceiling  glows  with  rich  allegorical 
designs,  not  over  chaste  or  refined,  but  artistically  beau 
tiful.  Two  of  the  most  noticeable  are  the  depictions  of 
Britomartis,  and  the  interview  between  lachimo  and 
Imogen.  The  floor  is  covered  with  rich  velvet,  which 
gives  no  echo  to  the  tread ;  but  there  is  not  a  mirror  in 
the  room.  The  reason  is  obvious :  a  gamester  who  risks 
his  hundreds  or  his  thousands  would  not  care  to  have  his 
cards  reflected  for  the  benefit  of  his  adversary.  La  Com- 
tesse.  is  a  lovely,  sparkling  woman,  rather  inclined  to 
embonpoint.  Her  eyes  and  hair  are  coal  black,  her 
glances  keen  and  penetrating.  She  is  known  to  keep 
marvellously  cool  and  collected  under  the  most  trying 
circumstances,  and  she  is  as  crafty  as  a  fox.  At  ombre, 
whist,  or  basset  she  can  successfully  cope  with  the  best 
players  in  Paris;  yet,  for  all,  the  young  lordlings  who 
frequent  her  salon  are  always  delighted  to  lose  a  few 
thousand  francs  to  her,  merely  for  the  purpose  of  being 
able  to  say  to  friends  less  favored,  "  Parbleu !  I  lost  an 
odd  thousand  to  Petitscreve*  yesterday;  good  player — 
very !"  For  La  Comtesse  seldom  plays  with  any  save 
distinguished  visitors,  thus  bestowing  a  certain  caste  on 
her  opponents.  Those  conversant  with  private  court 
scandal  aver  that  on  one  occasion  she  won  over  a  hun 
dred  thousand  francs  of  his  majesty  in  less  than  two 
hours ;  but  such  aspersions  on  the  dead  monarch  must 
be  received  with  caution. 

Philip  and  his  friends  engage  a  table,  and  they  are 
soon  deep  in  the  varying  fortune  of  the  blind  goddess. 

Count  Betenoire,  although  the  representative  of  a 
noble  family,  is  unfortunately  compelled  to  live  more  by 
his  personal  ingenuity  than  by  his  "  flowing  coffers,"  and 
his  game  is  always  safe,  wary,  and  high.  Philip  is  his 
adversary ;  and  as  the  game  finishes,  he  finds  himself  five 

IT* 


198  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

thousand  francs  poorer.  Though  the  loss  does  not  deeply 
trouble  him,  he  is  somewhat  mortified  at  his  defeat,  and 
he  says  to  the  Count,  as  they  are  leaving,  "  Do  you  care 
to  throw  a  few  mains  with  me,  Count  ?" 

"Sangdieu!  yes:  as  well  that  as  anything  else ;"  and 
they  return  to  the  table. 

A  servant  in  velvet  livery  hands  the  ivory  dice  on  a 
silver  salver,  and  Philip  sweeps  them  into  the  box.  At 
this  moment  the  Mare'chal  whispers  Philip  to  avoid  high 
play,  "  for  the  Count  is  always  lucky  at  a  main."  Philip 
resents  this  kindly  admonition  with  a  haughty  stare,  and 
throws  his  cast. 

"  Deuce,  quatre,  deuce — your  grace  counts  low,"  says 
Betenoire,  and  he  throws.  "  Trois  quatres!  good!"  he 
exclaims. 

Philip  raises  the  box  again,  saying,  "  Count,  I  double 
the  stakes !" 

"  Doubled  it  is,"  replies  the  Count. 

Philip's  cast  is  fifteen.  Betenoire  rattles  the  cubes 
well  before  he  throws,  while  Philip  leans  back  in  assumed 
indifference,  and  exchanges  a  few  words  with  the  Mare- 
chal.  The  Count  taps  him  on  the  shoulder  to  draw 
attention  to  his  cast. 

"  Sixteen,  eh  ?     You  are  fortunate,  Count." 

The  Mare'chal  adds,  in  an  aside  to  Philip,  "  Cela  va 
sans  dire!" 

Philip  replies  with  a  shrug,  "  It  is  nothing.  Golconda 
is  not  ruined  by  a  pearl's  abstraction!" 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  199 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

— Whom  the  grea 

Choose  for  companions  tete-l-t£te  ; 

Who  at  their  dinners,  en  fainille. 

SWIFT. 

THE  ambassador  looks  around  at  his  guests  with  a 
gratified  complacency,  and  well  he  may,  for  within 
whispering  distance  of  him  sit  renowned  authors  and 
celebrated  statesmen,  famous  beauties  and  honored  sol 
diers.  Philip  is  distinguished  by  a  seat  on  the  right  hand 
of  his  host,  who  is  determined  to  flatter  him  into  being  a 
Whig,  if  it  is  possible.  On  the  left  of  his  excellency,  lean 
ing  over  the  table  and  flirting  with  Mile.  Toutedetruire, 
a  beauty  notorious  for  the  duels  fought  in  her  honor,  is 
the  celebrated,  stammering  priest  Abbe"  Dubois,  son  of  a 
Correzian  apothecary — once  valet  to  a  pedagogue,  now 
a  member  of  the  council  and  the  possessor  of  the  two 
richest  abbeys  in  the  country.  His  ability,  wit,  and  tact 
are  amazing;  but  his  viciousness  and  selfish  profligacy 
are  indisputably  more  so.  He  is  the  most  trusted  coun 
sellor  of  the  Due  d'Orleans ;  yet  his  character  is  so  horri 
bly  corrupt  that  even  Philip*  was  once  compelled  to  say 
to  him,  "  Abbe",  a  little  honesty,  for  God's  sake !" 

Farther  down  Rollin's  kindly  honest  face  illumines  the 
board,  presenting  a  fit  contrast  to  the  Abbess  flushed, 
sardonically  sarcastic  countenance.  Philip,  who  has  plea- 
surably  noticed  the  gay  vivacity  of  Mile.  Toutedetruire 
whilst  she  has  been  conversing  with  Dubois,  is  amused 

*  Orleans. 


200  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

by  seeing  her  turn  her  back  on  him  with  an  angry  ex 
pression  on  her  mobile  features,  the  consequence,  doubt 
less,  of  his  scurrilous  wit ;  after  which  she  turns  her 
attentions  to  himself,  while  her  eyes  beam  in  an  en 
couraging  manner.  She  has  an  olive  complexion,  eyes 
dark  and  expressive,  and  a  straight,  narrow  nose,  whose 
thin  nostrils  dilate  tremulously  as  she  breathes.  Her 
mouth  is  a  trifle  over  large,  and  rather  sensual.  Unlike 
the  high  and  weighty  coiffures  of  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
her  hair  is  cut  short  and  twisted  into  flighty  little  curls 
which  dangle  wantonly  on  her  brow.  Half  a  dozen 
patches  adorn  her  chin  and  its  vicinity,  and  her  deftty- 
wielded  fan  is  a  miracle  of  delicate  traceries. 

Says  Philip,  "  Mile.  Toutedetruire,  why  so  cruel  to  the 
precisian  Abbe"  ?" 

"  Bondieu !  What  do  you  think  is  my  reason  for  treat 
ing  him  so  coldly  ?" 

"  I  could  never  guess !  May  be  he  called  you  a  Janse- 
nist?"  Rollin  glances  at  him  at  these  words.  "Or 
depreciated  your  perfume's  delicacy :  or,  let  me  see — 
surely  he  did  not  dare  to  presume  to  offer  himself  as  your 
confessor!" 

The  Abbe"  laughs  until  the  tears  come  to  his  eyes  at  this 
last  surmise. 

"No!"  she  replies  ;  "your  grace  is  wrong  in  all  your 
hazards.  Listen,  and  you  shall  hear  the  reason.  L'  Abbe* 
proposed  to  settle  a  benefice  on  my  nephew,  with  the 
proviso  that  he  must  undergo  his  pupilage  with  him ! 
Such  an  insult,  when  he  knows,  too,  that  I  have  always 
intended  my  relation  to  be  a  pious,  God-fearing  man !" 
and  she  casts  a  mischievous  glance  at  the  aspersed  Abbe*, 
who  is  sipping  a  goblet  of  ruby  wine  with  evident  enjoy 
ment. 

Dubois  pretends  intense  chagrin  at  her  insinuations, 
and  in  revenge  he  inclines  his  head  towards  her  uncovered 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WIIARTON'S   CAREER.  201 

shoulder,  and  therefrom  blows  a  tiny  cloud  of  perle 
poudre — a  fashion  to  which  she  conforms  more  for 
fashion's  sake  than  for  any  real  need  of  its  enhancing 
effect.  Watteau,  who  is  sitting  close  by  her,  quickly  draws 
off  his  laced  'kerchief  and  affectedly  essays  to  catch  the 
snowy  atoms  ere  they  fall:  for  which  strained  chivalry 
he  is  punished  by  a  tap  of  her  fan  on  his  cheek. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  salon  is  close  and  stifling  with 
the  odors  of  perfumes,  pastilles,  and  scented  cigarettes, 
that  are  now  the  necessary  concomitants  of  a  fashion 
able  assemblance.  Le  Dieu-donne,  as  they  called  Louis, 
had  strictly  prohibited  the  use  of  all  scents  or  per 
fumes  at  court  under  penalty  of  his  displeasure.  Conse 
quently,  after  his  decease,  a  reaction  took  place,  and  now 
every  beau  and  belle  dispels  Arabia's  perfumes  about  them 
as  they  walk,  move,  sneeze,  or  cough;  while  in  every 
salon  pastilles  are  burnt  and  fountains  of  perfume  make 
the  atmosphere  heavy  and  trying  to  the  nervous  or  ex 
citable. 

The  ambassador  drinks  to  Philip's  health  and  pros 
perity,  and  in  conclusion  says,  "  And  as  true  a  lover  of 
his  country  and  as  loyal  to  the  king  as  was  his  gifted 
father  1"  In  responding,  Philip  says  very  little  beyond 
acknowledging  his  excellency's  compliments ;  very  soon, 
however,  the  heavy  wine  which  he  has  been  drinking  begins 
to  fire  his  head,  his  tongue  wags  looser,  and  soon  his  wit 
and  bold  remarks  keep  his  side  of  the  table  in  cachinna- 
tory  convulsions.  Stair,  conversant  as  he  is  with  Philip's 
ready  speech  and  his  biting  pleasantries,  is  surprised  at 
him.  The  more  he  drinks  the  greater  seems  his  thirst, 
until  Stair  fears  that  before  the  repast  is  over  he  will 
either  be  under  the  table  or  else  will  have  to  be  carried 
away  to  sleep  off  the  effects  of  his  hard  drinking.  Ham 
mering  noisily  on  the  table  to  attract  attention,  Philip 
springs  up  on  the  seat  of  his  chair,  and  places  one  foot 


202  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

on  the  table,  while  the  company  cheer  and  applaud  with 
hand  and  foot. 

"  Mesdemoiselles  et  Messieurs,  fill  up — my  toast  will 
suit  you  all !"  and  he  glances  at  his  host,  who  begins 
to  arrange  a  few  sentences  in  order  to  acknowledge  the 
toast  of  which  he  is  to  be  the  subject.  "  May  Orleans  dare 
to  follow  in  Louis's  wake,  and  send  a  diamond  hilt  once 
more  to  England  1  Until  then,  long  live  our  exiled  mon 
arch  James  the  Third.  After — my  toast  will  be:  long 
live  our  restored  king,  and  death  to  the  Dutch  invader!" 

For  a  moment  there  is  a  hushed  quietness,  but  Stair  is 
cool  and  self-possessed ;  signaling  with  his  hands,  a  band 
of  hidden  music  sends  out  a  low,  entrancing  strain 
which  helps  to  dispel  the  restraint  and  relieves  the  neces 
sity  for  any  remarks  on  such  an  untoward  event  as  has 
occurred. 

Philip  has  descended  from  his  eminence,  and  he  is  at 
present  by  the  side  of  Mile.  Toutedetruire,  who  left  the 
table  in  order  to  visit  the  mirror  to  inspect  her  laces, 
her  ribbons,  and  her  countenance.  "  Ventrebleu !"  she 
exclaims,  "  your  grace  has  caused  a  grand  sensation  with 
your  absurdities !  What  could  have  put  such  a  foolish 
toast  into  your  head,  vous  bete  ?" 

He  replies  with  a  smile,  "  Your  own  sweet  eyes,  that 
betrayed  your  sympathy  for  poor  Jamie !" 

She  bestows  an  arch  look  upon  him  as  she  says,  "  Fi 
done,  your  grace !  What  would  the  Duchess  of  Wharton 
say  if  she  heard  you  speak  to  me  in  such  a  gallant  man 
ner?" 

"  Curse  me  if  I  care  what  she  would  say,"  he  rejoins 
in  an  excited  manner. 

With  a  cautioning  glance  from  her  eyes,  she  presses  a 
little,  plump  hand  on  his  lips,  and  steps  quickly  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room ;  where  she  is  soon  engaged  in  a 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  203 

witty,  wordy  warfare  with  l'Abb6  Dubois  and  his  ex 
cellency. 

Claudine  de  Tencin,  the  ci-devant  canoness  and  Orleans 
favorite — now  the  mistress  of  F  Abbe",  who  sustains  her  in 
an  almost  regal  style — has  been  unusually  quiet  during 
the  evening ;  but  as  soon  as  she  observes  that  Philip  is 
alone,  she  calls  to  him  to  come  to  her  and  sit  down  on 
the  sofa  beside  her.  Philip  obeys  with  as  much  alacrity 
and  grace  as  are  possible  under  the  circumstances ;  and  as 
wine  and  women  combined  tend  to  sharpen  his  wit  and 
render  it  more  piquant,  the  two  are  soon  engaged  in 
lively  conversation.  The  lady  is  a  mistress  of  the  art  of 
badinage  and  coquetry,  and  is  moreover  an  unusually 
talented  woman.  Her  figure  is  lithe  and  graceful,  re 
vealing  a  charming  languor  in  its  attitudes.  Her  eyes 
are  dark  brown,  sparkling,  and  intelligent ;  lips  full  and 
red ;  while  the  slight  down  shading  her  upper  lip  tells  of 
her  southern  origin  and  her  fiery  nature.  She  wears  her 
hair  in  long,  loose  curls,  which  fall  on  her  neck  and 
shoulders.  She  is  dressed  in  a  very  neglige  manner, 
almost  as  much  so  as  were  afterwards  Pompadour  and 
Parabere*.  Her  costume  is  made  of  a  thin,  transparent 
Indian  fabric  of  a  pearl  color,  studded  with  golden  cres 
cents — the  coa  vestis  of  the  period. 

"  Your  grace,"  she  says,  "  pray  glance  at  I'Abbe*  and 
Toutedetruire  1  One  would  say  that  his  very  existence 
depends  on  her  kindness,  to  judge  from  the  expression  of 
his  eyes  ;  poor  man!" 

"  I  have  had  an  eye  to  them,  Ma'm'selle  Tencin ;  he  is 
after  one  of  her  gloves  which  she  has  hidden  in  her  dress !" 

She  replies :  "  I  have  heard — between  us — that  the 
Chevalier  St.  George  once  made  overtures  to  Emilie,  and 
that  she  politely  declined  on  account  of  what  she  called 
'  his  pious  fanaticism  !'  " 


204  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST    ENEMY; 

"  Faith !  if  she  wants  the  opposite  of  a  friar,  recom 
mend  me  to  her." 

"  She  tries  well  for  an  abbe",  though,  in  spite  of  her 
worldly  scruples !" 

"  Ah  ha !"  laughs  Philip ;  "  an  abbe"  may  be  worse 
than  a  king!" 

"Or  better!"  replies  the  Tencin,  adding  rather  ab 
ruptly,  "Will  your  grace  be  in  town  any  length  of 
time  ?" 

"  No,  ma  belle,  I  will  not.  I  must  shortly  return  to 
England  to  inspect  my  estate,  and  also  attend  to  some 
vastly  entertaining  advice  anent  them  given  by  my  family 
lawyer  1" 

"Ehbien?" 

"  A  downwright  Whig,  who  will  test  my  orthodox}7, 
and  nasally  advise  me  to  'model  yourself  after  your 
blessed  father,  who  was  a  pillar  to  the  state  and  a  prop 
to  the  church.' " 

"  And  you  will,  I  suppose  ?"  she  says,  and  casts  a 
quick  glance  at  him  while  pretending  to  look  at  Dubois. 

"  Sainte  Yierge!  will  I?  See!"  and  he  directs  her 
attention  to  the  Jacobite  badges  concealed  under  his 
coat.  "You  heard  my  sentiments  at  table.  Do  you 
think  that  I  was  joking?  N"o !  I  was  in  earnest,  and,  as 
for  Protestantism,  to  with  it  and  all  its  expo 
nents  I" 

"  Ingrate  I"  she  murmurs,  pressing  her  fan  on  his  hand. 

Already  the  intoxication  of  her  presence  is  stealing 
over  him;  he  whispers  in  her  ear,  "  You  could  make  me 
Whig  or  Tory — Protestant  or  Papist!" 

She  lifts  her  eyebrows,  and  draws  down  her  lips 
sanctimoniously  as  she  replies,  "  Truly,  I  would  be  a 
valuable  adjunct  to  Holy  Mother  Church,  if  I  had  the 
power  which  you  say  I  have." 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  205 

Philip's  answer  is  certainly  to  the  point :  "  Test  your 
self,  and  you  will  be  assured." 

Philip  is  not  altogether  sober,  but  when  he  tells  her 
what  she  can  do  with  him,  he  knows  what  he  is  about,  for 
he  is  aware  that  she  is  a  firm  Jacobite  and  a  trusted 
Romanist ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  she  does  not  know 
that  he  is  already  half  Catholic  in  his  heart,  but  ascribes 
his  offer  to  an  excited  brain,  of  which  she,  as  a  true 
Catholic,  must  take  advantage. 

She  resumes,  with  a  certain  degree  of  gravity,  "  I  am 
not,  as  your  grace  probably  knows,  the  most  suitable 
person  in  the  world  to  turn  converter ;  but  if  I  thought 
I  could  induce  you  to  embrace  the  only  true  faith,  I 
would  think  it  a  condonation  of  many  guilty  words  and 
actions  which  I  have  committed;"  she  looks  straight 
into  his  eyes  with  a  long,  persuasive  glance,  and  pur 
posely  lays  her  hand  on  his.  Its  warm,  living  pressure 
thrills  through  him  from  head  to  .foot,  and  he  takes  it  up 
and  kisses  it  in  a  semi-drunken  delirium. 

"  Dear  Claudine,  from  this  moment  I  am  a  devoted  son 
of  the  church,  and  a  true  believer  in  the  Holy  Catholic 
Faith !" 

She  smiles  sweetly  on  him,  and  tells  him  how  glad  she 
is  that  she  has  "made,  at  any  rate,  one  convert  for 
Mother  Church." 

We  will  step  across  the  room  to  where  a  party  of  gen 
tlemen  are  engaged  in  dicing — a  mode  of  passing  the 
time  of  which  his  excellency  is  very  fond ;  at  present,  how 
ever,  he  does  not  take  part  in  the  game,  for  he  is  secretly 
engaged  in  writing  a  description  of  Stanrig  Bartoslav, 
the  long-bearded  Russian  who  is  now  rattling  the  dice ; 
he  has  a  stern,  proud  look  about  him  which  is  far  from 
ingratiating,  and  his  mouth  curls  in  supercilious  pride. 
His  excellency  overheard  a  few  remarks  that  he  made 
in  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  and  he  has  discovered 
18 


206  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

that  he  intends  to  visit  the  Pretender  in  order  to  give 
him  assurances  of  sympathy  from  some  eminent  Russian 
noblemen,  after  which  he  purposes  visiting  England ;  and 
these  remarks  his  excellency  is  jotting  down  in  order  to 
forward  to  his  royal  master. 

As  the  evening  advances,  and  more  wine  is  poured 
down  craving  gullets,  the  noise  and  confusion  increase, 
and  license  and  freedom  from  restraint  reign  triumph 
ant.  But  we  will  leave  this  scene  ere  "the  mad  intoxica 
tion  of  a  Regency  supper  pollutes  overmuch  our  reading, 
which  is  hard  enough  to  keep  clean  and  pure  and  yet 
furnish  any  idea  of  this  period  and  its  morals.  Here, 
as  everywhere  else,  is  illustrated  the  great  law  of  the 
equilibrium  of  forces.  France,  relieved  from  the  gloomy 
devotions  of  Louis  and  the  Maintenon,  experiences  the 
reaction  which  breeds  wantons  and  rakes,  midnight  or 
gies,  and  protracted  gaming. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Portius. — Marcus,  the  friendships  of  the  world  are  oft 
Confederacies  in  vice,  or  leagues  of  pleasure  t 
Ours  has  severest  virtue  for  its  basis. 

ADDISON'S  CATO,  III.  i. 

THERE  is  an  unusual  crowd  collected  in  the  Rue  Saint 
Denis,  who  ever  and  anon  exclaim  in  admiring  ecstasies : 
"  Parole  de  Dieu !  Beautiful !  solid  silver,  on  my  word ! 
wonderful !"  and  expressions  of  admiration  and  astonish 
ment  are  many.  The  sergeants  de  ville  hurry  to  the 
scene  of  confusion,  and  hustle  the  bourgeoisie  aside  with 
the  martial  scorn  for  civilians;  but  when  they  see  the 
object  which  has  produced  the  unwonted  disturbance, 
they  become  quite  as  noisy  and  excited  as  any  one  else. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  201 

The  innocent,  cause  of  all  this  wonder  and  surprise  is  a 
small  carriage,  the  entire  body  of  which  is  covered  with 
silver  filigree  work,  wrought  at  intervals  into  heraldic 
quarterings,  still  further  enriched  with  set-in  gems. 
The  hubs  of  the  wheels  are  also  decorated  with  pre 
cious  stones.  There  are  two  vacant  seats  in  front, 
while  in  the  box  behind  sit  in  stately  silence  two  huge 
negroes,  black  and  ugly  as  twin  Calibans,  and  as  shiny 
as  if  they  had  just  been  dipped  in  a  candle-tank.  They 
are  dressed  in  azure  velvet  jackets  trimmed  with  gold, 
and  knee-breeches  of  the  same  material.  They  are 
without  hats  of  a  civilized  fashioning,  but  their  thick, 
crinkly  wool  is  combed  into  fantastic  semblances  of 
cocked  hats,  retaining  their  shapes  through  a  plentiful 
use  of  bandoline  and  pomatum.  The  equipage  is  drawn 
up  before  the  door  of  M.  Enivrant,  jeweller  and  perfumer, 
and  from  there  to  the  carriage  the  crowd  has  formed  a 
narrow  pathway  of  craning  necks  and  wondering  eyes. 
" n  vient!  il  vient!  le  beau  Wharton!" 

Philip  steps  composedly  over  the  threshold  in  company 
with  a  gentleman  of  peculiar  aspect.  His  dress  is  white 
satin  slashed  with  azure;  and  his  knee-breeches  tinkle 
with  many  oak-leaf  buttons,  all  of  which  have  a  small 
diamond  in  their  centres ;  the  buckles  of  his  square-toed 
shoes  are  resplendent  with  diamonds  and  sapphires.  His 
companion  is  almost  his  fac-simile  in  dress,  with  perhaps 
a  shade  less  of  magnificence.  His  stature  is  small,  his 
shoulders  slightly  contracted  and  stooping.  His  face 
seems  familiar ;  but,  if  we  recollect  aright,  he  was  in  an 
abbess  costume  the  last  time  we  saw  him.  It  is  Dubois, 
who  is  Philip's  companion  in  this  new  freak  which  has 
set  half  Paris  by  the  ears.  Some  say  that  le  beau 
Wharton  is  doing  this  on  a  wager;  some,  that  he  is 
endeavoring  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  Parisians  in 
order  to  subvert  the  Regency;  while  others  maintain 


208  HIMSELF    HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

that  there  is  a  deep  policy  hidden  under  his  apparent 
madness.  In  fact  the  more  wonderful  the  tale,  the 
sooner  it  is  believed.  Dubois  has  so  well  disguised  his 
features  by  the  aid  of  cosmetics  and  a  long,  military 
beard,  that  he  escapes  recognition  and  the  consequent 
censure  which  he  would  incur  through  his  complicity  in 
such  nonsensicalities ;  he  is  at  once  christened  "  Le  Che 
valier  Inconnu." 

This  wonderful  carriage  and  its  occupants  have  been 
exhibited  through  all  the  fashionable  streets  and  boule 
vards,  and  wherever  they  have  stopped  for  a  few  minutes 
Philip  has  scattered  handfuls  of  money  to  the  people, 
and  then  harangued  them  in  a  speech  of  Jacobitical 
tendencies  ;  after  which  he  would  throw  hundreds  of  the 
Jacobite  cockades  to  them  to  wear  as  emblems  of  their 
sympathy  with  the  cause  of  the  Pretender. 

L'Abbd's  witty  and  scurrilous  remarks  draw  roars  of 
laughter  from  the  admiring  bourgeoisie,  and  as  Philip 
rises  from  his  seat  to  reprimand  his  friend  for  his  shock 
ing  obscenity,  in  words  more  shameless  than  the  other's, 
their  merriment  knows  no  bounds,  'and  they  scream  ap 
plaudingly:  "Yive  le  Wharton!  Vive  le  Chevalier  In 
connu" — expressions  which  both  acknowledge  by  raising 
their  hats  and  kissing  their  fingers. 

Finally  the  excited  people  unharness  the  horses  from 
the  shafts,  place  their  own  shoulders  to  the  task,  and 
triumphantly  drag  the  carriage  and  its  burden  to  la 
Maison  Northumberland.  Philip  rises  and  steadies  him 
self  by  holding  on  to  the  splashboard,  as  he  says,  "  My 
worthy  plebeians !  we  appreciate  your  great  kindness, 
and  are  really  thankful  for  your  evident  admiration  of 
our  persons  ;  still,  the  return  of  our  horses  would  make 
us  feel  yet  more  grateful  for  your  attention  toward  us." 
The  crowd  clap  and  hurrah  as  a  burly  blacksmith  leads 
forward  the  horses,  and  re-harnesses  them,  and  Dubois 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  209 

screams  In  a  shrill,  falsetto  voice,  "  Largess — largess  I" 
Philip,  thrusting  his  hand  into  the  box  on  the  bottom 
of  the  carriage,  whirls  a  shower  of  newly  coined 
francs  among  the  expectant  crowd,  who  curse,  bellow, 
and  fight  like  tigers  in  their  thirst  for  the  silver  distri 
buted  so  madly  and  culpably.  After  this,  Philip  grasps 
the  reins  and  drives  rapidly  to  the  Ruelle  de  Venise, 
where  he  jerks  the  horses  up  with  a  loud  cry  in  front  of 
the  Tete  du  Frere,  a  cabaret  of  very  humble  pretensions. 

Dubois  exclaims,  "  In  the  name  of  all  the  saints  I 
Wharton,  what  is  your  idea  in  coming  here!" 

"  'Faith,  I  know  not — except — " 

Dubois  interrupts:  "I  fear  Bacchus  reigns  in  your 
grace's  brain  at  present." 

"  Et  tu,  Brute !"  he  retorts,  and  resumes :  "  Let  us 
load  the  carriage  with  wine  bottles ;  what  say  you  ?" 

Dubois  does  not  reply,  but  begins  to  hum  a  parody  on 
Marlborough  s'en  va  en  guerre.  Philip,  springing  to 
the  pavement,  enters  the  cabaret,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
he  reappears  with  his  arm  linked  in  that  of  the  host — a 
fat,  red-faced,  vulgar  fellow,  who  is  ready  to  fall  to  the 
ground  at  Philip's  condescension.  Philip  has  promised 
him  five  hundred  .francs  if  he  would  alter  his  sign  to 
Tete  de  Jacques. 

Dubois  exclaims  in  surprise,  "  Your  grace !" 

Philip  replies,  "  All  right,  my  man  of  many  churches. 
I  have  made  these  agreements  with  this  honest  fellow ! 
first,  that  he  shall  change  the  word  Frere  for  Jacques ; 
and  secondly  stow  as  many  bottles  of  wine  in  the  carriage 
as  it  will  hold  at  a  nominal  price  of  fifty  francs  per 
bottle!" 

"  Eh  bien !"  replies  Dubois,  testily:  "  But  there  is  no 
necessity  for  you  to  make  a  friend  of  the  fool  1" 

The  man  wriggles  his  arm  from  Philip,  and  drops  behind 
18* 


210  HIMSELF  HIS  WORST  ENEMY; 

in  a  shame-faced  manner,  as  he  mutters,  "  My  lords,  it  is 
not  my  fault !  I  hope  I  know  my  place  better  than  that." 

Philip,  drawing  him  forward  by  his  ear,  cries,  "  Here ! 
my  red  Boniface,  put  your  hands  in  there,  and  help  your 
self;"  and  he  lifts  the  lid  of  the  money  box. 

The  man,  with  a  dazed  expression  on  his  face  caused 
by  the  sight  of  so  much  money,  begins  to  count  out 
the  sum  agreed  upon.  Philip  watches  him  for  a  minute, 
and  then  bids  him  drop  all  that  he  has  counted,  and  to 
hold  his  apron,  which  he  does.  Philip  scooping  up  two 
handfuls,  dashes  them  in  it,  and  then  scrambles  over 
the  bottles  of  wine  with  which  the  carriage  is  filled,  and 
regains  his  seat  beside  the  Abbe*,  who  exclaims  amusedly, 
"  What  does  your  grace  intend  to  do  with  all  this  second- 
rate  wine  ?  You  are  certainly  not  going  to  drink  it  ?" 

"  Drink  it !  No !  I  have  too  high  a  regard  for  my  teeth 
and  digestive  powers  to  do  such  a  thing,  I  assure  you, 
mon  abbe.  I  have  a  use  for  them,  however,  as  you  will 
see  in  time.  Shall  we  drive  to  Petitscreve^s  ?" 

Dubois  assents,  and  tries  to  think  what  Philip  intends 
to  do  with  the  wine. 

As  they  roll  along  in  high  spirits,  Dubois  whispers, 
"  Orleans  is  coming  this  way,  your  grace.  If  he  stops  to 
talk  to  you,  recollect  that  I  am  Sir  Charles  Castle — an 
English  friend  of  yours ;  for  he  dislikes  me  to  have  a 
hand  in  anything  tending  to  make  my  memory  more 
respected  than  it  is  at  present." 

"  Tres  Men  !  pull  your  hat  over  your  eyes,  and  draw 
your  collar  up  to  your  ears,  mon  abbe,  .and  if  you  are 
forced  to  speak,  talk  in  a  gruff,  disagreeable  way,  that 
will  repel  any  advances  which  he  may  make  to  you !" 

"  By  the  calendar !  he  comes  straight  towards  us !"  ex 
claims  Dubois. 

"  Sure  enough  1" 

The  Due  rides  a  superb  animal,  which  he  brings  to  a 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          211 

halt  before  the  carriage;  he  salutes  Philip,  who  rises  and 
removes  his  hat,  while  Dubois  affects  to  be  absorbed  in 
the  gambols  of  a  ragged  gamin  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  way. 

"Your  grace  is  determined  to  astonish  even  Paris 
with  your  magnificence  ?  Pray,  who  is  your  companion  ? 
His  form  seems  familiar  to  me." 

"Companion!"  returns  Philip;  "he  is  my  servant 
Seche  Pe"teux,  and  an  excessively  impertinent  jackanapes 
he  is !" 

"Ah!  a  thousand  pardons,"  returns  the  Regent. 
"  The  Duchess  of  Berry  has  desired  me  to  invite  you  to 
the  Luxembourg  ?"  •;,  s 

Philip  replies  in  a  flippant  manner,  which  causes 
Orleans'  face  to  flush :  "  Thanks,  mon  due.  I  will  take 
the  earliest  opportunity  of  seeing  her  I" 

Orleans  bestows  a  stiff  nod  upon  him,  and  rides  off  so 
quickly  that  he  almost  upsets  a  group  of  gamins  who  are 
clustered  near  his  horses'  heels. 

"Duchess  Berry — Palais  Royal — Luxembourg !"  sneers 
Dubois.  "  Your  grace  had  better  season  yourself  with 
a  few  suppers  at  Orleans'  ere  you  test  your  powers  of 
drinking  and  your  competency  in  regard  to  filthy  wit  and 
meaning  oglfngs  in  her  grace's  violet  boudoir."  ' 

"  Come,  come,  Abbe";  her  grace  and  yourself  must  be 
at  daggers  drawn,  you  talk  so  bitterly  about  her  I" 

"  Not  at  all ;  but  her  wild  orgies  and  amours  are  terri 
ble  in  their  evil  influences  on  Parisian  society ;  for,  when 
the  rest  of  the  sex  see  such  a  shining  example,  will  they 
not  follow  it  ?  and  if  they  do,  how  long  shall  we  have 
faithful  wives  and  pure  daughters?  As  for  men,  they 
now  get  drunk  from  policy,  and  for  the  same  reason  are 
confessed  libertines !  What  shall  we  do  when  women  rival 
them  in  private  life,  and  participate  in  what  are  known 
all  Europe  over  as  Regency  orgies,  and  known  too  for 


212  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

their  profligacy,  wantonness,  and  utter  shamelessness  ? 
Ugh  I" 

"  Encore !  Abbe",  encore !  It  does  me  good  to  see  you 
virtuous  for  once :  Ah  ha !  I  take  credit  to  myself  for 
the  discovery." 

The  Abbe*  rejoins  bitterly :  "  It  is  a  part  of  my  cha 
racter,  which  I  show  but  seldom.  When  I  do,  it  is  called 
hypocrisy  I  Sure,  that  is  not  an  unusual  trait  in  church 
exponents  ?" 

Philip  replies :  "  I  am  not  competent  to  answer  you, 
Abbe* !  When  I  first  knew  you — or  at  least  before  you 
enunciated  your  anathema  maranatha  against  her  grace — 
I  should  have  said,  taking  you  as  a  specimen,  that  hypo 
crisy  held  no  place  in  the  church,  your  peccadilloes  were 
so  bold  and  open.  But  since — "  He  shrugs  his  shoulders, 
and  casts  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  off  horse. 

By  this  time  they  are  opposite  to  Mme.  Petitscreve"'s, 
and  Philip  astounds  the  Abbe*  by  reaching  down  for  a 
bottle,  and  then  hurling  it  through  the  salon  windows 
into  Madame's  especial  apartment.  Crash !  and  it  flies 
through  the  thick,  stained  glass  which  Madame  had  im 
ported  from  Italy  at  a  large  expense. 

" Mille  diables,  your  grace  1     What  do  you  mean?" 

"Amusement,  my  dear  Abbe*,  amusement.  You  see 
there  will  be  an  infernal  uproar  in  a  few  seconds.  I  shall 
allow  Madame  and  her  attendants  to  yell  and  curse  for 
awhile — that  you  must  admit  will  be  amusing  ? — and  then 
I  will  pay  for  all  damages — make  everybody  about  drink 
King  James's  health,  then  exit  in  a  shower  of  bless 
ings." 

In  a  minute  all  is  confusion.  Petitscrevd's  head  is  out 
of  the  window,  and  she  is  talking  and  gesticulating  in  a 
most  angry  manner;  the  hall  door  is  opened,  and  a 
posse  of  gentlemen,  croupiers,  and  servants  appear,  who 
simultaneously  demand  the  reason  of  this  outrage. 


OR,  PHILIP  DUKE  OP  WHAETON'S  CAREER.         213 

Dubois  draws  his  hat  entirely  over  his  face,  folds  his 
arms,  and  vows  to  let  Philip  get  out  of  the  scrape  the 
best  way  he  can.  Philip  grasps  two  more  bottles.  One 
he  tosses  slowly  up  to  Petitscreve",  who  dodges  it  and 
begins  to  grow  almost  frantic;  the  other  he  sends 
through  the  window  above  her  head.  The  assembled 
habitues  of  the  salon,  although  exasperated  at  his  auda 
city,  are  yet  impressed  with  the  splendor  of  his  equipage 
and  the  dress  of  himself  and  Dubois,  and  some  call  out 
to  him  to  cease  his  throwing ;  none  interfere  with  him, 
however,  until  one  servant  grasps  at  the  head  of  the 
nearest  horse,  whereupon  Mahomet  springs  from  his  seat 
and  knocks  him  down  with  an  accompaniment  of  foreign 
oaths,  and  then  springs  back  to  his  place. 

Dubois,  fearful  of  consequences,  says :  "  Your  grace ! 
put  an  end  to  this  affair,  or  it  may  end  more  seriously 
than  we  think  for." 

Philip  seems  to  think  so  too,  for  he  opens  the  money 
box,  and  calls  out,  "  Ma  belle  Petitscreve",  what  is  the 
cost  of  your  broken  window  ?" 

She  will  not  answer  him,  thinking  that  he  only  means 
to  taunt  her ;  but,  as  he  repeats  his  question,  she  replies 
in  a  troubled  voice:  "Your  grace,  this  window  alone 
cost  me  two  thousand  francs,  for  which  I  have  Monsieur 
Chondrille'sbill!" 

Philip  replies :  "  Send  your  bill  to  la  Maison  Northum 
berland,  and  it  will  be  paid,  ma  belle;"  and  he  does  not 
wait  for  an  answer,  but  kicks  the  rest  of  the  wine  into 
the  street,  and  drives  off  homewards. 

As  they  turn  into  the  Boulevard,  they  pass  Edgely 
Yalentin,  who  throws  a  malignant  look  upon  Philip, 
which  he  returns  with  an  amused  smile.  Dubois,  who  has 
noticed  the  scowl,  says :  "  Certes,  if  that  man  could  ever 
poniard  your  grace  and  escape  detection,  he  would  most 
assuredly  do  it !  Did  you  mind  how  he  looked  at  you  ? 


214  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

His  eyes  said  vendetta  as  plainly  as  ever  tongue  spoke. 
Pardieu !" 

"  Oh,"  replies  Philip,  "  he  is  an  understrapper  at  court 
—a  spy  for  my  party.  He  once  foisted  himself  on  me  as 
a  friend ;  but  when  my  lord  Stair  informed  me  of  his 
true  character,  of  course  I  declined  further  acquaintance 
ship  with  Jim,  so  that  I  do  not  think  he  would  injure 
himself  to  do  me  a  favor." 

As  they  stop  at  the  door  of  la  maison,  Philip  says  ab 
ruptly,  "  Abbe",  I  return  to  England  to-morrow  in  order 
to  wind  up  some  little  affairs  which  I  had  in  hand  when 
I  left  London  with  your  countryman,  M.  de  Savatte ;" 
and  he  smiles  as  he  thinks  of  the  trick  he  had  played 
on  him,  and  he  tells  it  to  the  Abbd,  who  laughs  heartily 
at  the  contre-temps,  in  spite  of  his  surprise  at  Philip's 
sudden  resolve. 

"These  English!"  he  murmurs  apologetically,  as  if 
that  title  completely  justified  any  amount  of  freaks  or 
idiosyncrasies.  However,  he  asks:  "Is  your  grace  so 
soon  tired  of  Paris  ?" 

Philip  replies  :  "  Well,  no,  I  am  not  tired  of  Paris  so 
much  as  I  am  of  myself;  wherever  I  stop  long,  I  always 
find  myself  repeated  to  a  nauseating  extent." 

"  How  repeated  ?"  queries  Dubois. 

"  Mon  Abbe,  it  is  ever  the  privilege  of  great  men  to 
produce  followers." 

"  Parbleu !  You  give  me  a  negative  answer.  So  you 
mean  to  say  that  you  have  created  so  many  would-be 
fac-similes  of  yourself  that  you  are  tired  of  seeing  them. 
Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  Right,  Abbe*,"  he  replies ;  and  his  face — I  am  sorry 
to  say — is  disfigured  with  conceit  and  arrogance. 

Says  Dubois :  "  Do  you  intend  to  take  your  seat  in 
the  House  on  your  return  ?" 


OR,  PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON^S   CAREER.  215 

Philip  colors  as  he  replies :  "  No ;  I  think  not,  for  the 
present." 

"No!"  exclaims  Dubois  in  apparent  surprise;  "I 
should  have  thought  that  that  would  have  been  your 
primary  object." 

Philip  being  under  age  is  of  course  ineligible  to  Par 
liament  ;  this  the  priest  knows,  but  he  also  knows  how 
to  make  a  friend  by  two  or  three  questions  or  answers ; 
and  he  is  aware  of  Philip's  desire  to  appear  older  than 
he  really  is. 

"We  French,"  continues  Dubois,  "never  could  un 
derstand  either  yourselves  or  your  politics.  When  you 
arrive  at  Court  I  should  feel  infinitely  obliged  to  you  if 
you  would  present  my  compliments  to  Madame  Kiel- 
mansegge — a  lady  who,  by  the  way,  might  be  useful  to 
you  at  Court ;  her  acquaintance  is  quite  worth  cultivat 
ing." 

Philip  replies,  half  angrily:  "Really,  Abbe",  you  are 
forever  telling  me  whose  acquaintance  I  should  cultivate ! 
You  forget  that  a  Wharton  is  to  be  approached — not  to 
approach  I", 

Dubois  smiles,  but  agrees  with  him  in  every  point. 
"  Lord  Stair  will  probably  secure  the  pardon  for  Boling- 
broke?"  queries  Dubois. 

Philip  replies :  "  Pah  !  the  man  is  a  fool.  Let  him 
return  to  his  rightful  king,  and  ere  long  he  will  need  no 
pardon !" 

"  What  means  your  grace  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  it  will  not  be  long  ere  a  Stuart  shall 
again  sit  on  a  hard-won  throne !" 

"Say  you  so?"  replies  Dubois  dubiously.  "How 
comes  it  that  your  grace  is  so  violently  opposed  to  your 
deceased  father's  party  ?" 

Philip  replies,  with  a  laugh  :  "  Pardieu  I  I  have  pawned 
my  principles  to  Gordon — the  Chevalier's  banker;  and 


216  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

until  I  can  repay  him,  I  must  be  a  Jacobite.  When  I  do 
repay  him,  I  '11  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  embrace  Whig- 
gery  forever." 

It  is  a  fact  that,  even  with  the  immense  annuity  which 
he  is  continually  receiving  from  home,  he  is  always  in 
debt,  and  that  to  an  immense  amount ;  although  he  often 
has  the  money,  he  would  rather  squander  it  in  extrava 
gances  than  liquidate  his  numerous  bills. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Now  change  the  scene  ;  a  nohler  care 
Demands  him  in  a  higher  sphere  : 
Distress  of  nations  calls  him  hence. 

SWIFT. 

PHILIP  is  once  more  in  London,  and  he  is  busily 
engaged  in  superintending  the  altering  and  re-furnishing 
of  his  mansion,  which  he  is  having  decorated  in  a  most 
fanciful,  extravagant  manner.  He  is  at  this  moment  in 
his  father's  death-chamber,  and  it  is  npw  in  a  state  of 
confusion  and  uproar.  Artisans  and  artists  are  intently 
occupied  in  measuring,  plumbing,  plastering  and  painting. 
Philip  speaks !  Let  us  listen  with  respect  to  this  sym- 
bolization  of  economy,  who  actually  superintends  his  own 
affairs  I — a  wonderful  thing  for  him  to  undertake  con 
sidering  his  thorough  aversion  to  business  of  a  practical 
nature. 

"Here — s'death!  fellow.  I  ordered  the  green  screen 
to  be  left  in  its  former  position,  and  now  you  have — tut- 
tut  !"  and  he  pishes  angrily,  and  screams :  "  Take  your  vile 
tools  out  of  my  sight !  Fool !  get  you  gone !  And  here, 
you  cabineteer!  I  want  my  private  room  finished  in 
ebony ;  a  type  of  myself — sombre  and  inflexible." 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  217 

To  tell  the  truth,  his  orders  impede  work  far  more 
than  they  forward  it,  for  they  are  so  contradictory  and 
confusing  that  the  workmen  secretly  wish  his  lordship 
anywhere  but  in  his  own  house.  A  servant  enters  with 
a  letter,  which  Philip  glances  over,  and  exclaims :  "  Harry 
Hautefort ! .  Ask  him  to  step  up  at  once !" 

He  scarcely  finishes  the  command  when  Sir  Harry 
steps  gingerly  towards  him  :  "  My  lord,  allow  me — " 

"  Ah !  Sir  Harry,  you  have  come  at  last !  It  is  high 
time,  let  me  tell  you !" 

"True,  my  lord,"  he  responds,  and  he  presses  his 
scented  handkerchief  to  his  brow  :  "  I  would  have  been 
to  see  you  sooner,  but — " 

"But  me  no  buts,  my  dear  fellow;  it  is  all  right. 
Have  a  glass  of  wine  with  me,  or  rather  without  me,  and 
I  '11  change  my  clothes,  and  go  out  with  you  to  get  rid  of 
these  glue-scented,  varnish-stuck  pack  of  rascals  who  are 
pulling  my  house  to  pieces,  and  nearly  distracting  yours 
ever — "  and  he  is  gone. 

"  Rackety  as  ever  1"  murmurs  Sir  Harry.  "  There  are 
strange  rumors  about  his  doings  abroad.  I  question  the 
truth  of  the  report  which  makes  him  a  Jacobite,  but  he 
is  so  headstrong  that  all  one  would  have  to  do  to  make 
him  one  thing  would  be  to  persuade  him  to  be  its 
opposite  1" 

Sir  Harry  is  himself  a  Tory — or  Trimmer  denotes  his 
principles  better;  for,  although  apparently  a  violent 
Tory,  he  really  believes  in  a  middle  course.  But  in 
these  days  it  is  necessary  for  a  public  man  to  be  an 
extremist,  or  else  he  runs  the  risk  of  being  attacked  by 
both  parties  who  unite  in  the  one  particular  of  hating 
half-way  men  or  Trimmers. 

Philip  re-enters,  and  exclaims :  "  I  am  a  quick  dresser, 
you  see." 

Sir  Harry  replies :  "  As  I  live,  my  lord,  our  London 
19 


218  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

sparks  will  groan  in  envy  at  your  suit ;  it  is  glorious  1 
superb  I" 

"  The  last  Parisian  cut!"  replies  Philip. 

"  'Sooth,  you  '11  Ibe  more  successful  than  ever  in  your 
heart  affairs  with  such  a  covering  to'help  your  face." 

Philip  answers :  "Yes,  the  dress  is  quite  pretty;  the 
quadruple  slash  on  the  doublet  is  my  own  idea,  as  is 
also  the  bone-lace  frill  on  the  outer  edging." 

"  Possible  ?"  exclaims  Sir  Harry,  and  he  stoops  to 
admire  Philip's  taste  and  ingenuity.  "It  must  have 
taken  a  deal  of  study  to  originate  these  devices." 

"Oh  no — not  for  mel"  Philip  replies,  and  he  jerks 
his  swordbelt  a  trifle  to  the  right  to  make  it  lie  more 
conformably  to  his  waist. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ?"  queries  Sir  Harry. 

"  Wherever  you  wish.  Yet  stay — I  have  a  message 
from  a  friend  in  Paris  which  I  promised  to  deliver  as 
soon  as  possible.  Let  us  to  court,  and  sec  the  great 
George  and  his  greater  mistresses." 

"  As  you  say,  my  lord,"  replies  Sir  Harry.  "  His 
majesty's  ministers  hold  a  levee  to-day." 

They  walk  together  arm  in  arm,  feathers  flying  and 
spurs  tinkling.  As  they  proceed  on  their  way  to  the 
cockpit  at  Whitehall,  Philip  meets  many  of  his  former 
friends,  all  of  whom  are  delighted  at  his  return,  and 
speak  in  high  terms  of  his  increased  good  looks  and 
manlier  bearing ;  which  compliments  he  returns  so  pro 
fusely  that  even  were  those  to  whom  he  speaks  enemies 
they  must  become  his  friends ;  for  Philip  possesses  all  his 
father's  powers  of  cajoling  and  flattering,  and  whom  he 
wishes  to  be  his  friend,  he  can  make  so,  often  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"  Harry,"  says  Philip,  "  I  think  I  '11  change  my  mind, 
and  defer  my  visit  to  the  wiseacres.  You  will  not  be 
offended  at  it,  I  know  ?" 


OB,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  219 

Sir  Harry  replies  with  a  smile :  "  Faith !  no.  On  the 
contrary,  I  feel  quite  relieved — as  if  an  incubus  were 
taken  off  my  mind." 

They  retrace  their  steps,  and  Philip  proposes  a  trip  to 
Hampton  Court,  to  which  Sir  Harry  agrees,  and  they 
proceed  to  one  of  the  many  water-stairs  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  palace,  and  engage  a  wherry.  The  day  is  delight 
ful,  and  the  sun  showers  its  genial  warmth  over  all. 
A  soft  breeze  ripples  the  swelling  surface  of  the  water ; 
and  the  foam  which  the  wherry's  prow  makes  under  the 
strokes  of  the  athletic  oarsman  flies  to  their  faces  in  cool, 
silvery  spray.  Noble  elms  and  beach  trees  slope  down 
to  the  water's  edge  on  either  side,  and  throw  a  deep 
shade  in  by  the  banks  where  numerous  parties  lie  in  their 
roomy  wherries,  and  flirt,  play  on  the  cithern,  dilate  on 
the  new  brocade,  marvel  at  the  fine  flavor  of  Mistress 
Jonson's  tea,  or  explain  the  last  passado  or  entre'chat 
brought  from  Paris. 

Away  they  go — past  imposing  mansions  and  modest 
cottages — past  loving  couples  "who  saunter  the  walks  so 
absorbed  in  themselves  that  they  aTe  ignorant  of  the 
amusement  which  they  give  to  the  spectators  of  their 
innocent  diversion — and  past  lumbering  ships  which  float 
the  wealth  of  the  prolific  Indies  to  our  colder,  less  pro 
ductive  clime.  Both  Philip  and  Sir  Harry  doff  their 
hats  ceremoniously  as  a  gayly  decorated  bark  shoots 
by  manned  by  three  burly  watermen.  The  coronet  em 
blazoned  on  their  right  arms  evinces  that  the  fair  occu 
pant  may  boast  the  sangre  azul  of  poet's  parlance.  She 
is  the  loveliest  woman  in  all  London  who  has  just  passed 
them — Mary  Bellenden.  Her  cheeks  are  like  the  mellow 
half  of  a  ripe  peach,  her  lips  as  red  as  the  wild  sumac  of 
the  American  colonies.  Her  eyes  are  as  blue  as  the 
sweet  wild  violet,  and  her  hair  is  the  rich  chestnut  so 
usual  among  English  girls.  Her  virtue  and  goodness 


220  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

are  well  known.  She  is  much  courted  in  society  and  even 
the  prince  had  made  some  overtures  to  her  a  short  time 
since,  which  she  had  indignantly  rejected,  and  told  him, 
with  fiery  looks  and  burning  cheeks,  "  Prince !  I  tell  you 
that  Mary  Bellenden  could  not  turn  Mistress  to  the  man 
she  loves — much  less  to  one  she  hates  /" 

Says  Philip :  "  S'life !  Harry !  I  saw  a  few  beauties  at 
the  court  over  the  water ;  but  Mistress  Bellenden  pales 
them  all.  Even  in  my  dreams,  I  have  never  seen  such 
perfect  loveliness."  He  stops,  and  an  angry  shade 
crosses  his  brow,  as  he  adds  to  himself:  "If  I  had  not 
been  such  an  arrant  dolt,  I  might  have  honored  Mistress 
Bellenden  myself." 

"Yes,  my  lord!"  interpolates  Sir  Harry;  "and  her 
temper  matches  her  looks,  as  our  virtuous  Prince  found 
out  to  his  cost !" 

Philip  adds,  in  a  disgusted  manner:  "Faugh — the 
Dutchman !  He  thought  he  had  a  Kielmansegge,  or  one 
of  that  stripe  to  deal  with.  He  has  yet  to  learn  our 
English  women !  Apropos  of  women — have  you  heard 
aught  of  Lady  Wharton  or  General  Holmes  since  I  have 
been  away  ?  I  have  not  had  a  letter  from  them  since  I 
left  for  the  continent." 

This  is  false,  for  he  received  several,  but  did  not 
answer  them,  nor  in  some  cases  even  read  them  during 
his  riotous  career  in  Paris. 

Sir  Harry  replies:  "No,  my  lord,  but  I  know  that 
they  are  both  in  the  country  somewhere,  and  tolerably 
well !" 

"  I  shall  have  to  run  over  to  Bucks,  ere  long." 

"  Hampton !  my  lords !"  cries  the  waterman,  as  the 
boat's  keel  grates  on  the  clean  sand.  And  now  there 
ensues  a  good-natured  dispute  between  Philip  and  Sir 
Harry  as  to  the  right  to  pay  the  man;  who  shrewdly 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S  CAREER.  221 

settles  it  by  saying :  "  Troth !  yer  lordships  can  both  ' 
pay  me;  d'ye  see?"     They  smile   at   his  new  way  of 
settling  a  dispute,  and  the  fellow  receives  double  his  fare 
for  his  impudence. 

They  proceed  to  the  Palace,  and  are  ushered  in  with 
the  etiquette  and  ceremony  usual  in  such  cases — a  de 
scription  of  which  would  only  be  tiresome  and  profitless. 

Attracted  by  the  laughter  and  merriment  proceeding 
from  a  room  to  the  left  of  the  wide  vestibule,  they  enter, 
Philip  leading  the  way.  There  are  present  about  a 
dozen  ladies  and  fully  as  many  gentlemen,  busily  en 
gaged  in  chatting  and  flirting,  talking  politics  or  scandal, 
and  sipping  Souchong  out  of  large,  shallow  saucers,  or 
drinking  wine  from  cut-glass  goblets.  Philip  is  at  home 
in  such  places,  and  he  is  soon  surrounded  by  an  admiring 
party.  Lady  Deloraine  congratulates  him  on  his  return, 
and  inquires,  with  a  significant  glance,  about  his  wife. 
She  is  a  graceful  woman,  slightly  built,  but  easy  and 
unconstrained  in  her  movements.  Her  face  is  pleasing 
and  attractive,  and  her  prominent  chin  and  bright  eyes 
show  that  her  temper  is  none  of  the  mildest.  As  an 
instance  of  it,  you  shall  hear  of  her  reply  to  the  Countess 
of  Buckenburgh — a  retort  which  is  even  now  the  sub 
ject  of  conversation  among  a  few  of  the  scandal  lovers 
who  are  here.  While  she  was  in  the  royal  presence 
yesterday,  the  Countess  had  said,  in  the  hearing  of  his 
majesty  and  Lady  Deloraine :  "  These  English  women 
do  not  look  like  women  of  quality  ;  they  ever  have  their 
eyes  on  their  feet,  and  always  look  in  a  fright ;  whereas 
our  countrywomen  hold  up  their  heads  and  hold  out 
their  bodies,  and  they  make  themselves  look  great  and 
stately,  and  more  like  quality  than  the  poor  English 
women."  To  which  Lady  Deloraine  replied  in  a  loud 
voice :  "  We  show  our  quality  by  our  birth  and  breeding, 

19* 


222  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

madame,  and  not  by  sticking  out  our  bosoms,  and 
making  the  throne  shake  with  our  strides  1"* 

Lord  Harborough  is  sipping  Souchong  and  exchang 
ing  bonmots  with  Mistress  Nostitz — the  Polish  Envoy's 
lady — a  sparkling,  witty  little  body,  with  very  black  eyes 
and  a  dazzling  white  skin.  M.  Nostitz  might  have  felt 
justifiably  jealous  if  he  were  about,  to  notice  how  warmly 
my  lord  regards  her,  and  with  what  affectionate  solici 
tude  his  hand  rests  on  her  arm ;  however,  as  the  action  is 
unknown  to  all  but  themselves,  the  lady  demurely  allows 
it  to  remain  there,  amiably  unconscious  of  the  audacity. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughs  Sir  Harry,  in  a  low  voice.  "Be 
hold  la  Grenouille.  Let  us  go  over  and  talk  to  her ! 
She  is  in  the  sulks,  and  I  '11  coranto  for  an  hour  if  she 
fails  to  amuse  you." 

Nothing  loth,  Philip  steps  across  the  room  to  where 
Madame  Robethon  sits  alone  with  an  angry  scowl  on 
her  low  forehead.  Her  cheeks  are  fat  and  shaky,  and 
she  has  innumerable  chins  which  rest  on  her  almost  in 
visible  neck  ;  while  the  way  in  which  she  is  sitting  is 
ludicrously  suggestive  of  an  immense  toad,  for  her  eyes 

are  dull  and  watery,  and  her  mouth Pope !  aid  me 

to  a  simile ! 

"  Ah,  Madame  Robethon,  how  is  your  health  to-day  ? 
Good,  I  hope  ?  for,  when  you  are  unwell,  England  moans 
the  illness  of  one  of  the  few  beauties  who  adorn  her  sea 
girt  shores,  and  cause  less  favored  countries  to  grow 
green  with  envy  1" 

"  Ach !  milord  Wharton,  you  speak  untruth  with  me !" 
she  rejoins  angrily. 

Philip  lays  his  hand  on  his  breast  in  an  earnest  man- 

*  The  Countess  of  Buckenburgh  was  very  stout,  and  her  tread  was 
remarkably  heavy,  while  her  long  strides  were  the  occasion  of  many  a 
luugh  at  her  expense, 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'fi   CAREER.  223 

ner  as  he  replies:  "Madame,  I  feel  your  cold,  cutting 
sarcasm  in  my  very  marrow  1" 

She  half  bounces  from  her  seat  as  she  exclaims, "  Marry  ? 
Mein  Gott  I  You  haf  too  good  a  wife  now  for — "  and 
the  remainder  of  her  words  are  lost  in  the  peal  of  laughter 
which  the  rest  of  the  company  find  it  impossible  to  re 
press  ;  and  really  her  croaking  voice,  her  shaking  body, 
and  her  squat  rotundity  are  enough  to  excite  the  risibles 
of  St.  Dominic  himself. 

After  about  an  hour's  conversation  with  Lord  Har- 
brough — who  has  vainly  attempted  to  probe  his  views  on 
the  ministry,  for  Philip  has  seen  his  design,  and  foiled 
him  with  double-edged  answers  which  might  mean  yes  or 
no,  and  which  have  perplexed  his  questioner  with  their 
ready  wit  and  nonchalant  reprising — he  motions  to  Sir 
Harry,  and  they  retire  from  the  room.  He  says  in  a 
careless,  off-hand  manner :  "  Well,  Harry !  I  feel  as  if 
a  trip  into  the  country  would  do  me  good !  I  think  of 
going  to  Bucks,  and  rusticating  amid  the  Phillises  and 
Corydons  of  my  native  village.  Town  dissipation  is 
telling  on  my  nerves ;  I  need  solitude  and  fresh  air  to 
recuperate  my  flagging  energies." 

"  Recuperate  I  my  lord.  'Faith,  if  I  had  half  your 
energy,  I  would  count  myself  a  lucky  man !  Your  face 
is  fresh  and  rosy,  and  your  long,  quick  step  half  kills 
me." 

Philip  replies :  "  Yes,  my  constitution  is  good,  I  admit ; 
but  it  could  be  better :  moreover,  I  want  to  see  her  lady 
ship  and  her  stern  old  father,  who  once  on  a  time  gave 
me  a  mighty  severe  raking." 

"  For  some  practical  joke  you  played  on  his  venerable 
person,  I  presume,  or  an  intrigue  that  shocked  his  ideas 
of  morality  and  virtue.  Speaking  of  intrigues,  did  you 
ever  hear  the  story  of  your  respected  father  and  a  Nelly 
Valentin  ?" 


224  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

Philip  thinks  a  moment,  and  replies:  "Nelly  Valen 
tin  ?  I  have  heard  that  name  before ;  but  my  memory 
fails  me  in  regard  to  the  circumstance.  Yet  when  I 
think  of  it,  I  recollect  that  I  once  received  a  vile  scrawl 
signed  by  a  gypsy— whom  I  permit  to  live  on  my  estate 
—who  demanded  a  thousand  guineas  or  threatened  me 
with  some  vague  but  dire  vengeance.  I  was  mad  at  the 
time  it  came,  and  I  paid  but  little  attention  to  it,  except 
to  order  the  scaramouch  mercury  to  depart." 

"  The  same,  probably,  but  of  that  particular  incident  I 
was  ignorant ;  but  I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  whole 
story  as  we  go  along,  unless  indeed  you  have  something 
better  with  which  to  pass  the  time.  This  Nelly  Valen 
tin—" 

A  man  soberly  clad,  whose  face  is  partly  concealed  by  a 
broad-brimmed  hat,  and  who  has  appeared  to  dog  Philip 
and  his  friend  for  some  time,  now  draws  closer  to  them. 

"  Was  a  rustic  beauty,"  continues  Sir  Harry,  "  whom 
your  father  saw  and — " 

"  And  God's  curse  on  him  for  the  vile  deed !"  hisses 
rather  than  speaks  Edgely  Valentin,  who  has  heard  Sir 
Harry's  every  word;  and  he  throws  off  his  hat  and 
reveals  himself  to  the  astonished  gaze  of  Philip,  who 
thought  him  in  Paris ;  while  Sir  Harry  half  draws  his 
rapier,  and  glares  in  a  puzzled  manner  at  the  insolent 
intruder. 

"  Nelly  Valentin ! — Edgely  Valentin !"  exclaims  Philip, 
and  a  sudden  light  breaks  in  on  his  mind.  "  This  man 
must  be  a  relative  of  hers,  who  is  rightly  enraged  at  our 
jesting  over  Mistress  Nellie's  disgrace :  particularly  as  I 
am  the  son  of  her  betrayer!"  He  exclaims  haughtily : 
"  Master  Valentin,  your  insolence  deserves  a  severe 
chastisement.  However,  if  the  lady  of  whom  we  spoke 
is  any  kin  to  you,  we  apologize,  and  promise  you  that 


OR,    PHILIP    DUKE    OP   WHARTON'S    CAREER.  225 

we  will  not  renew  the  conversation  until  you  are  without 
earshot." 

"  Any  kin  I"  he  sneers,  and  his  face  grows  livid  with 
his  great  passion.  "  I  would  give  up  my  life  if  her  se 
ducer  could  appear  before  me !  He  should  know  what  a 
gall-hearted,  lying  villain  I  deem  him !"  and  he  gripes  the 
pommel  oi  his  heavy  sword  until  his  hand  is  white  with 
the  strain. 

"A  God's  life,  sirrah !"  exclaims  Philip;  "this  if>  in 
solence  with  a  vengeance  !  A  good  thrashing  from  my 
servant  would  cure  the  ill  humor  that  plagues  you  !"  and 
Philip  looks  sternly  at  him ;  but  he  proceeds  in  a  soft 
ened  strain  as  the  thought  passes  through  his  mind,  how 
he  would  feel  under  like  circumstances  :  "  Come,  my  good 
man,  you  have  now  aired  your  opinion  of  my  dead  father 
— an  opinion  which  he  doubtless  merited  ;  and  your  best 
plan  now  is  to  decamp  with  a  whole  skin  and  be  thank 
ful  for  my  forbearance." 

"  Yes,"  chimes  in  Sir  Harry.  "  If  I  had  thought  you 
were  a  gentleman,  you  should  have  felt  the  new  Italian 
passado  tickle  your  scandalizing  gullet.  As  it  is — I 
leave  jrou  your  life." 

Edgely  Valentin  looks  scornfully  from  one  to  the 
other  as  he  replies  :  "  Good  lack,  my  lords  1  'Tis  a  pity 
I  have  no  title  to  stick  to  the  front  of  my  good  name,  or 
I  should,  as  you  desire,  be  gratified  with  a  sight  of  your 
steel ;  and  more  pity  'tis  that  my  blood  would  disgrace 
your  weapons."  He  picks  up  his  hat  again,  draws  it 
over  his  face  with  a  savage  jerk,  and  walks  rapidly  away. 

"  S'life,  Harry !"  says  Philip,  with  a  laugh,  "  we  must 
tear  reputations  to  pieces  in  a  more  secret  manner,  if  we 
would  avoid  a  repetition  of  such  scenes,  for  which,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  have  but  little  stomach." 

" Umph !"  grumbles  Sir  Harry:  "if  we  cannot  talk  of 
a  far-away  country  lass  but  a  defender  springs  up  in  the 


226  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

shape  of  a  sad-garbed  clown,  what  shall  we  do  in  town, 
where  every  woman  has  so  many  relatives — right-handed 
or  otherwise?"  And  he  finishes  the  story  that  had 
been  interrupted,  and  Philip  chuckles  admiringly  at  his 
father's  adroitness.  An  erring  son  can  find  a  real  conso 
lation  in  the  faux-pas  of  his  lamented  sire. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"  Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking, 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy  !" 

DRYDEN. 


PHILIP  does  not  enter  by  the  usual  gateway,  but  leaps 
his  horse  over  a  low  stone  wall,  and  lands  in  the  forest  a 
few  yards  distant  from  Elm  avenue,  pushing  forward 
toward  the  old  trysting-place — once  the  loadstar  of  his 
thoughts ;  he  draws  rein  and  springs  from  his  saddle : — 

"Margery  Holmes — Margery  Wharton! — I  did  not 
think  the  difference  had  been  so  great,  or  I  would  not 
have  dispelled  my  love-dream  by  such  a  common-place 
means  as  marriage.  Poor  girl  1"  and  a  remorseful  pang 
shoots  across  his  heart  as  he  rests  his  hand  against  the 
same  seat  on  which  they  once  sat  by  the  hour  together 
and  where  she  had  leaned  her  dear  head  on  his  shoulder 
which  'had  trembled  with  its  precious  burthen.  Here,  he 
pressed  her  soft  lips  with  kisses  that  sunk  down  to  her 
heart,  and  left  their  traces  in  a  deep,  unchangeable  love. 
He  thinks  of  the  night  when  she  sprang  into  his  arms 
with  that  little  sob  of  joy  and  grief,  and  told  him  with  a 
tearful  smile  that  he  could  do  with  her  as  he  wished ; 
and  every  little  circumstance  and  incident  of  that  meet- 


OB,  FHHJP  DUKX  or  WHAKTOS'S  CAMEiTE-        237 

fag — even  to  the  tearful  glisten  of  her  eyes  in  the  moon 
light—surges  up  in  his  mind.  He  gulps  down  some 
obstruction  in  his  throat,  and  mounts  his  horse  in  a 
sk>w,  dispirited  manner.  Sodden! j  he  strikes  the  spurs 
deep  into  her  sides,  and  the  animal  leaps  so 
that  she  nearly  unseats  him,  despite  his  perfect 
manship;  "  Steady— steady,  Bet!"  he  exclaims,  and  at 
the  sound  of  Ms  voice  she  calms  down,  hot  still  proceeds 
at  a  quick  pace  until  he  checks  her  at  the  Weird's  Care, 
where  he  takes  a  long  look  around  before  be  again  sets 
off  toward  the  Castle. 

His  home  appears  desolate  and  "1  •  f  1  to  him  now, 
for  there  is  neither  a  other  nor  a  mother  to  welcome 
him  with  a  grasp  of  the  hand  or  an  embrace.  He  looks 
wistfully  at  the  window  where  his  mother  would  hare 
been,  and  his  eyes  grow  brighter,  and  their  fids  grow 
trpannlnn*-  He  gisscen  cautiously  about  to  see  whether 
there  are  any  watchers;  then,  satisfied  tint  he  is  unob 
served,  he  angrily  dashes  off  his  cheek  a  tear,  which 
would  come  whether  or  no;  for  his  young  heart  yearns 
for  his  dead  parents. 

A  minute,  and  he  is  at  the  lodge-door,  and  he  draws  a 
long,  deep  breath,  places  his  hand  to  his  month  in  hunter 
fashion,  and  screams  in  piercing  tones  the  Tiew-haDoo. 
The  door  opens  with  wonderful  rapidity,  and  Shan's 
honest  face  and  curly  pate  protrude  in  questioning 
wonder.  "Wefl^ShesmP*  exdansv  Phflip,  and  he  grasp* 
Shem's  hand  with  a  hearty  shake. 

Shem  is  thunderstruck  for  a  moment,  but  finally 
releases  Philip's  hand,  bends  his  knee,  and  begins  to 
address  a  welcome  to  bis  master  in  the  words  of  an  old 
formula  which  is  customary  on  these  occasions ;  Philip 
interrupts:  "Up,  Shem,  up!  Xever  mind  your  wel 
come.  Tour  lace  is  a  better  index  to  your  heart  than 


228  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

the  words  of  a  musty  old  parchment.  Where's  Debbie 
and  Brad  ?  Call  them  at  once !" 

In  spite  of  Philip's  command  Shem  remains  stolidly  in 
the  same  position  until  he  "  has  had  his  say,"  then  he 
hurrahs  with  a  rare  good-will,  and  quickly  reaches  for 
his  hunting  horn,  upon  which  he  performs  such  a  shrill, 
far-reaching  call  that  the  very  lodge  shakes  with  the  air's 
vibrations.  "  That  'ull  bring  'em,  my  lord !  Rebeck  me, 
but  your  lordship  has  grown  tall  and  big  sin'  you  left  for 
furrin  pairts." 

"  Good  sakes,  Master  Philip !  have  ye  come  back  at 
last !  Gie  me  a  buss  for  the  sake  o'  old  times  when  you 
an'  Brad  were  dandled  on  the  same  lap !  good  sakes  I 
how  weel-favored  ye've  grown,  to  be  sure!"  exclaims 
Debbie  in  a  breath ;  while  Brad  stands  in  the  background 
with  his  mouth  opened  in  a  smile,  and  his  eyes  sparkling 
an  eager  welcome  to  his  former  playmate  and  yet  dread 
ing  to  come  forward  for  fear  of  "  makin'  a  fule  o'  himsel'," 
as  he  afterwards  explained.  Philip  notices  his  hesita 
tion,  and  with  kindly  tact  he  goes  up  to  him  and  shakes 
him  by  the  hand,  and  inquires  about  his  wife  Meg  Throck, 
the  former  Meg  Busbie,  who  is  well  and  happy.  He  then 
says :  '.'  I  must  leave  you  now,  for  I  want  to  run  over  to 
Holme  Grange!" 

"Ay,  do!"  adds  Debbie;  a  warning  glance  from  Shem, 
however,  and  she  holds  her  tongue. 

"  You  must  consider  my  visit  as  a  secret  not  to  be 
divulged,  for  I  return  to  London  to-morrow,  and  I  have 
no  time  to  spare — not  even  enough  to  sleep  one  night  in 
my  former  chamber ;  and  as  I  shall  not  be  able  to  see 
you  again  before  I  go,  I  '11  bid  you — '  good-bye,'  and  my 
blessings  on  all  of  you.  And  Brad!  give  my  love  to 
Meg,  and  tell  her  that  when  I  come  again  I  shall  pay 'her 
a  visit!" 

As  he  approaches  the  Grange,  he  rides  more  slowly 


OE,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP  WHAETON'S   CAEEEE.  229 

until  his  champing,  restless  horse  proceeds  at  a  pace 
more  in  accordance  with  a  funeral  than  a  proposed  meet 
ing  with  a  loving  wife.  He  is  now  behind  the  bushes 
whence  he  looked  out  on  her  one  well-remembered  night ; 
and  with  an  exclamation  at  the  uneasy  movements  of  his 
horse,  he  springs  from  the  saddle.  At  first  his  step  is 
slow ;  now  he  strikes  out  at  a  quick  step  straight  up  to 
the  low  window  where  Margery  used  to  sit,  and  play 
with  her  spaniel  or  converse  with  her  father. 

No  one  is  about,  and  the  room  is  very  dark ;  for  the 
heavy  curtains  are  drawn,  and  they  keep  out  the  light. 
He  steps  inside  and  remains  motionless  for  a  moment 
until  his  eyes  have  become  accustomed  to  the  darkness. 
Now  he  can  see  distinctly ;  and  his  quick,  stifled  breath 
shows  that  he  recognizes  the  form  which  lies  on  the  blue- 
velvet  lounge  under  the  bay  window.  Stepping  noise 
lessly  to  the  window  he  half  draws  one  of  the  curtains, 
and  a  broad  ribbon  of  pink  light  falls  athwart  Margery's 
face.  She  looks  more  like  a  marble  effigy  than  a  liv 
ing,  breathing  girl ;  the  lily  has  vanquished  the  roses 
on  her  cheeks  and  left  them  pale  and  waxen.  Her  lips 
are  tightly  closed,  while  the  corners  of  her  mouth  are 
drawn  and  curved  as  though  she  dreams  of  some  sor 
rowful  thing.  Her  sunlit  hair  falls  in  fragrant  tresses 
on  the  dark  velvet,  and  undulates  and  glitters  golden- 
like  on  her  fair  neck  and  bosom,  which  rises  and  falls 
in  irregular  starts  as  though  she  has  a  half-consciousness 
of  the  presence  of  an  intruder. 

Philip  kneels  down  by  her  side,  and  looks  at  her  long 
and  tenderly,  until,  no  longer  able  to  control  the  power 
of  his  newly-awakened  love,  he  put  his  arms  around  her 
waist  and  draws  her  to  his  breast,  while  his  lips  touch 
hers  with  a  kiss  so  passionate  that  she  screams  in  affright, 
and  wakes  to  find  herself  in  Philip's  arms.  "  Philip !"  she 
exclaims,  and  her  bod}'  becomes  cold,  and  heavier  than 
20 


230  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

before,  and  she  is  unconscious ;  at  this  juncture  Philip 
hears  the  General's  well-known  step  coming  toward  him, 
and  he  awaits  the  denouement  in  some  anxiety. 

"Margery!  Margery! — I'm  sure  she  called — Mar 
gery!" 

Philip,  disengaging  himself,  faces  Holmes,  and  says 
calmly:  "Well,  General!  Philip  has  returned,  you  seel" 

"Bilboes  and  lobedoes!  my  dear,  dear  boy;"  he  ex 
claims,  in  excited  gladness.  "  Why  did  yOu  outflank  me 
in  this  manner?  If  I  had  known,  you  should  have 
been  met  with  all  the  honors  of  Holme  Grange.  Have 
you  seen  Margery  ?"  he  goes  to  the  lounge  and  endea 
vors  to  rouse  her,  thinking  that  she  is  still  asleep,  and 
Philip  does  not  undeceive  him.  "  Wake,  Margery,  hinny ! 
Here  is  somebody — Heavens !  she  is  dead !  Philip,  Philip  I 
come  here !  Have  you — " 

Philip  adds :  "  She  knows  I  am  here,  General  I  She 
fainted  when  I  showed  myself  to  her." 

Holmes  looks  relieved  at  the  explanation,  and  replies  : 
"That's  all,  eh?  All  right,  then;  here — "  and  he  calls 
for  a  servant  to  bring  in  the  lights  and  iced  wine  for 
"  Mistress  Margery." 

For  a  time  ensues  confusion  worse  confounded  by  the 
General's  impetuous  movements,  and  his  excitement  at 
the  return  of  his  daughter's  husband.  Margery  has  re 
covered,  but  she  is  still  too  weak  to  stand,  and  she  is  half 
reclining  on  the  lounge  with  eyes  all  ablaze  and  a  glorious 
color  in  her  cheeks ;  whilst  Philip  gives  an  outline  of  his 
wanderings  abroad,  and  as  he  finishes,  she  says  pleadingly: 
"  You  will  never  go  away  again,  Philip  ?  I.  have  been  so 
lonely  here,  even  with  father." 

The  General  adds  :  "  Yes,  stick  to  home  and  us  now. 
You  are  surely  tired  of  travelling  by  this  time." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  replies  Philip,  "  but  I  really  must  set  out 
for  Dublin  in  a  few  days.  I  have  political  business  to 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  231 

attend  to  there  which  I  shall  shirk  as  much  as  possible, 
you  may  "be  sure." 

Margery's  face  grows  troubled  as  she  hears  this  intel 
ligence,  and  the  color  slowly  fades  away  from  her  cheeks. 

By  this  time  Philip  has  recovered  his  equanimity,  and 
he  begins  to  blame  himself  for  having  a  hand  in  so  theat 
rical  a  display  as  he  has  himself  created.  The  General 
goes  to  the  door,  and  apologizes  for  his  departure,  and 
now  Philip  and  his  wife  are  alone  together.  She  rises 
from  the  lounge,  and  sits  down  on  a  footstool  close 
beside  him.  She  looks  up  into  his  face  so  long  and  anx 
iously  that  Philip  begins  to  feel  guilty  and  embarrassed, 
and  to  break  the  painful  silence,  he  says :  "  Sweetheart, 
tell  me  what  you  have  done  during  my  absence." 

The  old  smile  momentarily  dimples  her  cheeks  as  she 
replies :  "  Always  call  me  sweetheart,  Philip  dear !  It 
sounds  like  Rooksnest  and  the  dark,  cool  avenue.  The 
time  has  dragged — but  never  mind,  darling !  You  are 
with  me  now,  and  I  am  happy — so  happy."  And  she 
hides  her  face  on  his  knees  to  conceal  her  tears  of  joy. 

Philip  elevates  his  eyebrows,  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and 
mutters,  "  As  bad  as  ever,  curse  me  1" 

She  lifts  her  bright  eyes  to  his  face,  and  says,  in  a 
voice  which  is  deep  and  thrilling  with  repressed  emotion: 
"  Did  you  speak,  darling  ?" 

"  No,  Margery  ;  I  was  but  thinking  I" 

"  Of  me  ?"  she  asks. 

"  Yes,  Margery,  of  you  1" 


232  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 


CHAPTEE  XXXIII. 


-Took  proper  principles  to  thrive  :- 


SWIFT'S  "  LIBEL." 

THE  gypsy  queen  still  holds  her  court  in  the  forest's 
heart,  but  Maldran  Gudru  is  there  no  longer.  He  has 
been  disgraced,  and  expelled  the  camp  for  two  years  as 
the  penalty  of  insulting  his  royal  mistress.  When  he 
returned  from  his  errand  in  London  and  told  her  of  its 
fruitlessness,  she  reproached  him  for  his  lack  of  energy 
and  idleness,  to  which  he  replied  in  an  insolent  manner 
which  angered  her  so  much  that  she  struck  him  on  the 
mouth  with  her  hand,  and  he  caught  her  by  the  neck  in 
his  blind  rage,  and  tried  to  throw  her  down.  In  return 
she  drove  her  four-edged  poniard  through  his  traitorous 
arm,  signalled  for  help,  and  Maldran  was  disgraced. 

Philip  feels  a  passing  desire  to  view  once  more  the 
forest  camp,  where  he  gambolled  and  played  at  hide-and- 
seek  with  his  tawny,  ragged  playmates ;  and  he  is  now 
walking  thither.  The  day  is  clear,  cold,  and  bracing, 
and  the  keen  north  wind  rushes  down  the  lungs  icy-cold 
and  nipping.  He  enters  the  camp,  and  unperceived 
walks  to  the  queen's  tent  by  a  back  path  with  which 
he  is  familiar,  and  he  calls  in  a  low  voice,  "  Queenie ! 
queenie!!"  The  door  opens  at  the  summons,  and  the 
queen  ejaculates  in  surprise,  "My  lord!"  "Yes, 
queenie !"  he  replies,  and  he  catches  her  in  his  arms  and 
salutes  her  with  rather  more  fervor  perchance  than 
friendship  alone  calls  for,  and  so  she  thinks,  for  as  she 
disengages  herself,  she  exclaims,  "  For  shame,  my  lord ; 


OB,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  233 

you  almost  squeezed  the  life  out  o'  me.  Recollect  that 
ye  are  not  the  little  Philip  of  other  days  now,  but  a 
grown  gentleman,  an'  ower  old  to  kiss  an'  hug  me  as  ye 
used  to  do!" 

He  laughs  at  her  remonstrance,  and  replies:  "You 
are  in  a  bad  temper  this  morning,  queenie !" 

Her  face  clouds  with  a  moody  expression  as  she 
answers,  "  Am  I  ?  Mayhap  I  have  cause." 

Philip  is  about  to  put  his  arm  around  her  waist,  when 
she  shrinks  from  him  with  a  gesture  of  dislike,  and  cries : 
"  Stop,  my  lord !  I  care  not  for  such  fooleries !" 

"  The  more  fool  you !"  he  retorts,  nettled  at  her  petu 
lance.  "  I  thought  you  would  like  to  see  me  ere  I  left 
for  Ireland ;  but  as  I  am  not  welcome  I'  11  go  away  as 
quickly  as  I  came  1" 

"One  minute,  my  lord  1"  she  says,  and  she  lays  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  "  I  have  something  to  say  which  ye 
must  hear  before  ye  leave  queenie." 

Philip  is  a  little  surprised  at  her  words,  and  ascribes 
them  to  some  whim  or  freak,  but  willing  to  humor  her, 
he  waits  for  her  to  proceed. 

"My  lord,  I  did  not  ask  ye  to  break  bread  or  sup 
wine  wi'  me  when  ye  came  in.  This  is  the  reason.  Your 
father—" 

But  it  is  useless  to  narrate  her  words,  for  we  know 
her  story.  As  she  finishes  Philip  cries :  "  A  plague  on 
these  Valentins!  Wherever  I  go,  it  is  Valentin! — in 
Avignon,  in  Paris,  in  London,  and  now  here  on  my  own 
estate.  A  thousand  guineas  were  a  small  sum  to  be  rid 
of  this  tiresome  persecution.  Send  to  Shem  Throck's 
for  it  to-morrow,  and  it  will  be  there.  I  pity  the  poor 
woman ;  but  s'life  I  do  not  see  why  my  father's  pecca 
dilloes  should  be  punished  through  me !  A  fico  for  your 
'  vengeance,'  as  you  so  magniloquently  term  it.  I  give 
the  money  out  of  pure  charity  to  Mistress  Yalentin.  I 

20* 


234  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

can  go  now,  I  suppose — eh,  queenie  ?  Come!  give  me  a 
kiss  for  my  good-nature ;  I  deserve  one !" 

Her  face  is  brighter  now,  and  she  smiles  demurely  as 
she  replies,  "  My  lord  has  a  right  to  poach  on  his  own 
manor  when  he  chooses !" 

Philip  requires  no  other  permission,  and  he  presses 
his  lips  on  hers  again  and  again  until  she  repulses  him 
with  a  good-natured  scolding.  "  Good-bye,  queenie !  I 
am  going  over  to  your  Irish  cousins,  now,  and  maybe 
you  will  never  see  me  again." 

The  General  is  up  and  walking  briskly  about  in  the 
garden  for  the  sake  of  his  health,  and,  as  he  expresses  it, 
"  to  teep  my  sword-belt  from  growing  too  small."  Bui; 
Margery  still  sleeps,  for  it  was  very  late  ere  she  could 
compose  herself  after  the  exciting  event  of  the  previous 
day.  Philip  informs  the  General  of  his  intention  to 
start  for  Dublin  at  once,  and  bids  him  good-bye  amid 
his  half-angry  protestations  and  entreaties ;  and  he  tells 
him  that  he  will  go  up  to  see  Margery  in  her  room. 

"  "Well  1  if  you  will  go,  bless  you,  my  boy,  and  let  your 
shadow  darken  my  gate  again  as  soon  as  possible." 

Philip  steps  lightly  to  the  bedside,  and  sees  that 
Margery  is  sound  asleep.  He  opens  his  escritoire,  and 
hurriedly  writes  a  short  letter  in  which  he  tells  her  that 
he  "  leaves  her  in  this  manner  in  order  to  spare  her  the 
pain  of  a  parting,  and  that  he  will  soon  return,  or  else 
send  for  her ;"  he  finishes  with,  "  Good-bye,  wifie !  I 
kissed  you  adieu  whilst  you  slept,  so  that  you  might 
dream  of  me :  for  Debbie  used  to  tell  me  that '  a  sleeping 
person  kissed  will  dream  of  the  kisser.'  Hoping  that 
the  saying  is  true,  I  bid  you  good-bye  for  a  short  time." 
He  lays  the  letter  gently  on  her  bosom,  touches  her  lips 
very  lightly,  and  goes  softly  down  the  stairs  and  through 
the  hallway  to  the  front  of  the  Grange,  where  his  horse 
stands  ready  saddled  and  bridled.  He  shakes  hands 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  235 

with  the  General  once  more,  vaults  into  the  saddle,  and 
off  he  gallops  at  full  speed  1  Away — down  the  avenue, 
through  the  forest,  across  the  meadow  lands  and  hunt 
ing-ground — he  flies,  fearing  that  Margery  may  awake 
and  send  after  him ;  for  tearful  partings  are  "  mightily 
apt  to  disturb  one's  equanimity  and  enjoyment !" 

While  in  London  Philip  had  endeavored  to  take  his 
seat  in  parliament,  but  being  under  age  he  was  ineligible, 
and  to  his  extreme  chagrin  and  regret  he  found  that  his 
aspirations  for  political  honors  were  foiled,  at  least  in 
England.  His  fertile  mind  had  other  resources,  however, 
and  he  determined  to  go  to  Ireland,  and  see  whether  the 
more  hot-blooded,  mercurial  Shamrockites  would  have 
the  same  objection  to  receive  him  as  their  English  breth 
ren,  for  his  Irish  peerage  entitles  him  to  a  seat  in  their 
house.  Of  course  he  is  ineligible  there,  also,  if  his 
peers  see  fit  to  make  him  so  ;  but  he  is  hopeful  and  san 
guine,  and  he  has  great  confidence  in  his  powers  of  per 
suasion  over  the  impressionable  people  whom  he  pur 
poses  to  honor  with  his  person.  As  he  pushes  forward 
at  a  quick  gallop,  which  sends  his  young  blood  tingling 
joyously  through  his  veins,  he  soliloquizes :  "  If  I  can 
not  gain  my  point  there,  I  am  beaten  for  a  couple  of 
3rears !  But  I  cannot,  will  not  fail,  for,  young  as  I  am, 
I  feel  certain  that  I  can  topple  over  half  the  arguments 
and  decisions  that  are  given  there,  provided  they  are  no 
better  than  are  those  delivered  and  registered  by  our 
London  orators  and  judges.  They  say  in  Ireland  that  a 
steel  point  must  prop  a  hard  word,  which  is  certainly  a 
point  in  my  favor;  for  if  such  is  the  case  they  must  all 
be  gentlemen,  either  from  nature  or  necessity."  His 
mind  gloats  on  the  future  when  he  will  be,  as  his  father 
and  Harley  and  Stanhope  were  before  him,  the  cynosure 
of  an  admiring  people,  and  the  leader  of  an  enthusiastic 
parliament  who  will  applaud  his  tactics  or  compliment 


236  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

him  on  his  wit,  learning,  and  bravery;  and  his  heart 
throbs  an  lo  Triumphe  in  the  glorious  anticipation  of 
the  future. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Thus,  with  each  gift  of  nature  and  of  art, 
And  wanting  nothing  but  an  honest  heart. 

POPE'S  "  WHAKTON." 
He  must  be  greater  than  his  sire  ; — 

SWIFT. 

PHILIP  is  soon  a  great  favorite  in  Dublin,  with  both 
Whigs  and  Tories,  for  his  daring,  his  generosity,  and  his 
great  powers  of  drinking,  frolicking,  and  conversing.  lie 
is  unanimously  admitted  to  the  House,  where — to  every 
body's  surprise  and  possibly  his  own — he  turns  sides  and 
becomes  as  violent  a  Whig  as  before  he  was  a  Tory. 

He  finishes  his  maiden  speech  with  these  words :  "  My 
only  thought  will  be  to  support  the  ministry,  the  govern 
ment,  and  to  advocate  the  Orange  cause."  It  abounds 
in  terse  reasoning,  strong  arguments,  and  scathing 
sarcasm  against  the  Opposition ;  and  it  is  adorned  with 
all  the  flowers  of  rhetoric  and  fancy.  Cheer  upon  cheer 
bursts  from  his  excited  listeners,  which  he  acknowledges 
by  a  graceful  bow,  and  he  takes  his  seat.  His  hand  is 
grasped  "  many  a  time,  and  oft"  before  he  receives  all 
the  congratulations  which  are  poured  in  on  him.  Says 
Lord  Carnbregh,  a  well-known  orator  and  lawyer:  "My 
lord,  I  heard  your  father  when  he  was  quite  young,  and 
he  was  wonderful ;  but,  if  you  continue  as  you  have  begun, 
you  will  eclipse  his  achievements  altogether." 

Philip's  eyes  glitter,  and  his  cheeks  flush  as  he  replies : 
"  My  father  led  his  party  in  London.  Sure  I  can  do  the 
same  in  Eblana?" 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON's   CAREER.          237 

His  words  sound  prophetic,  and  as  his  audacious 
answer  is  circulated  around,  it  is  received  with  cheers  and 
laughter.  A  few  veterans  among  them  shake  their  heads 
doubtingly  at  his  words,  but  they  are  not  heeded  in  the 
general  hubbub  and  brouhaha. 

That  night  Philip  retired  with  his  head  in  a  whirl  of  ex 
citing  and  ambitious  thoughts,  engendered  by  his  triumph 
at  the  House  and  the  hearty  applause  of  its  members. 
His  sleep  is  broken  and  restless,  and  the  sun  still  slumbers 
as  he  arises,  dresses  himself,  and  strolls  down  to  Liffey's 
banks.  The  river  undulates  dark  and  dismal  in  the  gray 
morning  light,  and  he  compares  its  dull,  heavy  surface 
to  his  past  life,  which  has  been  spent  in  riotous  debauch 
eries  and  enervating  excesses  that,  for  the  time  being, 
deadened  and  saddened  him,  mind  and  body.  Now  am 
bition's  sun  lifts  him  above  his  former  life,  and  makes 
him  worthy  of  commendation  and  admiration,  as 
heaven's  sun  will  brighten  and  beautify  the  now  murky 
Lifley. 

.  "  If  I  had  been  by  his  death-bed,  I  know  that  his  last 
words  would  have  been:  '  Philip,  sustain  my  party  I' 
And  I  will.  I  would  rather  see  the  Chevalier  on  his 
throne ;  but  as  he  is  not  there,  and  doubtless  never  will 
be,  it  is  my  duty  as  a  true  Briton  to  uphold  the  govern 
ment  and  stand  by  the  ministry.  No  more  shall  it  be 
said  of  me  that — • 

'  I  see  the  right  and  I  approve  it  too, 
Condemn  the  wrong,  and  yet  the  wrong  pursue !' 

Now  I'll  pursue  the  right  as  well  as  see  it,  i'faith! 
'Tis  a  pity  though  that  his  majesty  is  so  mightily  Dutch, 
and  keeps  two  such  frowsies  as  Kendal  and  Darlington 
continually  by  him — duplicate  Grenouilles,  devoid  even 
of  her  sense  and  passable  acquirements — " 

"  Your  lordship  is  up  betimes,"  interrupts  Lord  Hint- 
flam,  who  has  approached  him  unobserved. 


238  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Philip  turns  to  him,  and  they  converse  on  different 
subjects,  the  beauty  of  the  far-stretching  bay,  or  pass 
remarks  on  the  weather,  until  Philip,  whose  whole  mind 
is  now  absorbed  in  politics,  says:  "My  lord,  do  you 
think  it  possible  that  his  majesty  and  the  prince  will  ever 
be  better  friends  than  they  are  ?  Their  bickerings  dis 
grace  the  country  and  scandalize  its  statesmen." 

"  They  will  never  be  in  amicable  relations  with  each 
other.  His  majesty  views  the  prince  with  the  deepest 
aversion.  Do  you  recollect,  when  he  set  out  for  Han 
over,  how  he  tried  to  prevent  the  prince  from  assuming 
the  regency,  and  also  his  dismissal  of  Argyle  ? — No,  they 
can  never  be  friends." 

Philip  replies :  "  I  recollect ;  his  majesty's  hatred  and 
jealousy  of  him  were  the  talk  of  Paris." 

"  Speaking  of  Argyle,"  continues  Lord  Hintflam,  "  the 
prince's  connection  with  him  is  indiscreet  to  the  last  de 
gree,  and  only  tends  to  widen  the  rupture  I" 

Philip  replies  approvingly:  "  You  are  correct,  my  lord." 

A  favorable  criticism  at  which  Hintflam  seems  rather 
nettled,  and  rejoins  rather  pointedly :  "  I  am  glad  you 
think  so  1" 

Philip  nods  assentingly,  and  resumes :  "  "What  do  you 
think  about  Townshend?" 

"  The  prince's  cat's  paw,"  returns  Hintflam. 

"  Yes,  he  deserves  his  dismissal  for  his  weakness  and 
his  utter  lack  of  diplomacy.  It  is  unfortunate  for  us, 
though,  for  our  only  support  now  is  Stanhope." 

Hintflam  rejoins :  "  And  he  should  have  resigned  on 
Townshend's  dismissal." 

"Certainly  not!"  replies  Philip,  "Stanhope  is  right. 
Why  should  we  lose  two  supports  because  one  is  fallen  ?" 

"  He  ought  to  accept  of  Ireland.  He  will  only  in 
crease  bad  feeling  against  him  by  a  refusal !" 

Philip  replies :  "  Well,  well ;  we  must  all  do  our  best 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON's   CAREER.  239 

to  keep  our  Tory  friends  within  bounds,  or  else  they 
may  send  us  luider  again." 

Philip's  reason  for  ending  the  discussion  so  quickly  is . 
that  he  has  just  ca'ught  sight  of  a  very  pretty  girl  cross 
ing  the  muddy  street  which  compels  her  to  expose  a  foot 
and  ankle  worthy  of  a  Gaditana  of  sunny  Spain.  He  is 
desirous  of  viewing  her  at  a  closer  distance,  and  hur 
riedly  excuses  himself  to  Lord  Hintflam,  and  he  follows 
after  the  object  of  his  desires  at  a  leisurely  pace  in  order 
not  to  attract  attention.  She  is  tall,  and  magnificently 
proportioned.  Her  eyes  are  dark  hazel,  and  delightfully 
expressive ;  and  her  cherry  lips  look  very  inviting,  while 
there  is  that  nameless  grace  about  her  which  seems  more 
fitted  for  the  saloon  than  the  street — more  suitable  in  a 
countess  than  in  a  lonely  girl  strolling  about  Dublin  at 
an  early  hour  in  the  morning. 

She  walks  briskly  on  toward  the  cathedral — a  noble 
structure  of  great  antiquity,  and  a  mass  of  historical 
incidents,  from  the  spire  on  the  high  sloping  roof  down 
to  the  lowest  dungeon  of  its  underground  vaults.  As 
she  enters  the  arched  doorway,  she  turns  round  and 
smiles  coquettishly  to  Philip,  who  salutes  her,  and  signs 
to  her  to  wait  for  him  ;  but  she  declines  to  obey  him,  and 
goes  inside.  Nothing  daunted,  Philip  follows  after  her. 
The  interior  of  the  cathedral  is  solemnly  grand.  The 
lofty  ceiling  is  an  immense,  azure  vault,  dotted  with  golden 
stars ;  while  at  regular  distances  the  holy  fathers  look 
down  from  the  dizzy  height  with  a  saintly  calmness  on 
their  grand  faces.  Around  the  extreme  circle  of  the  ceil 
ing — almost  trenching  on  the  walls — are  rose- windows  of 
warm,  glowing  colors,  which  fleck  the  stone  floor  with 
mingling  dashes  and  splashes  of  all  the  rainbow  colors 
and  suffuse  the  quaint,  crumbling,  oaken  stalls  with  a 
delicious  mellowness. 

Philip  never  asks  himself  why  the  unknown  comes 


240  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

here.  There  is  no  service  to-day,  and  the  cathedral  is 
lonely  and  deserted.  He  walks  up  the  centre  aisle,  and 
casts  his  eyes  about  in  search  of  her ;  but  she  is  nowhere 
to  be  seen:  "Faith!  this  is  a  good  joke! — a  woman 
hiding  from  me  in  a  church !  ha-ha!"  and  he  calls  in  a 
loud  voice,  "  For  mercy's  sake  I  my  unknown  siren,  tell 
me  where  you  are  ?" 

"  If  my  Lord  Wharton  wishes  to  see  me — lo,  I  am 
here !"  she  answers  in  musical,  mocking  accents ;  and  she 
walks  towards  him.  Her  face  is  concealed  by  a  black 
silk  vizard,  which  she  holds  on  with  her  left  hand, 
extending  to  him  her  right.  He  raises  it  to  his  lips, 
but  she  snatches  it  away,  and  exclaims:  "My  lord,  I 
give  you  my  hand  as  a  friend,  not  as  a  conquest !  Your 
tour  abroad  has  rendered  you  conceited.  You  doubtless 
consider  me  as  a  prize  whom  your  very  good  looks  have 
captivated — eh  ?" 

He  is  rather  taken  aback  at  her  words,  but  h%replics, 
with  a  look  of  profound  devotion,  "  Fair  lady,  such  inso 
lent  presumption  could  not  find  a  place  in  nry  thoughts." 

She  laughs  as  she  replies :  "  Hoity-toity !  Who  dares 
to  accuse  his  grace  of  Northumberland  of  presumption?" 

Philip  starts  as  he  hears  himself  called  by  a  title  which 
he  has  not  claimed  since  his  return  to  England :  "  None 
could  lay  such  a  charge  to  him  merely  for  following  a 
lady  in  the  streets,  and  then  inflicting  his  presence  on 
her  in  the  house  of  holiness."  Rather  piqued  at  her 
sarcastic  manner,  he  angrily  replies,  "  S'life,  I  '11  not  in 
flict  it  any  longer!"  and  he  turns  to  leave  her.  But 
she  starts  forward,  -and  lays  a  little,  white  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  says,  in  a  half  pleading  manner,  "  Pardon  me, 
your  grace,  I — " 

He  turns  so  quickly  that  he  strikes  against  her,  and, 
to  keep  herself  from  falling,  she  catches  hold  of  his  arm, 
whereat  he  is  rather  pleased  than  otherwise ;  and,  as  an 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          241 

attentive  cavalier,  he  thinks  that  he  can  support  her 
better  by  putting  his  arm  around  her  waist.  This  little 
attention  she  declines,  and  she  removes  his  hand,  and 
says,  with  &  mischievous  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  "For 
shame!  you  a  married  man,  and  I  a  wife — perchance!" 

He  replies  with  a  sigh:  "The  first  is  unfortunately 
true,  but  under  favor  the  last  is  false  I" 

"  Many  thanks  for  your  grace's  courtesy.  Since  you 
know  so  much,  maybe  you  can  tell  me  who  I  am — my 
name,  pedigree,  and  country  ?" 

"  Madame,"  he  says,  "  that  is  an  impossibility,  which 
is  my  misfortune,  and  which  will  be  your  fault  unless 
you  enlighten  me ;"  and  he  raises  his  hand  to  remove  her 
vizard;  but  she  anticipates  the  movement  by  drawing 
back  a  step,  and  she  holds  her  taper  finger  up  warningly 
as  she  exclaims :  "  Not  yet !  but  I  may  tell  you  my  name, 
if  you  promise  not  to  reveal  it!" 

Of  course  he  gives  the  promise,  and  a  low,  rich  laugh 
displays  her  pearly  teeth  as  she  replies,  "  Madame  Gre- 
nouille!"  He  laughs  aloud  at  the  ludicrous  images 
which  the  name  brings  before  his  eyes;  but  his  com 
panion  appears  highly  oifended,  and  she  conducts  herself 
in  such  an  absurd  manner  that  he  is  well  nigh  out  of 
patience  with  her.  Finally  she  says,  in  a  graver  manner: 
"  Let  us  seat  ourselves  in  this  stall,  and  I  will  tell  you 
truly  about  myself,  and  about  others  whom  you  may 
know."  He  obeys  her,  and  she  proceeds :  "  Before  I  say 
any  more,  your  grace  must  give  me  your  word  of  honor 
that  all  I  say  or  do  in  our  interview  will  go  no  further 
than  ourselves  ?" 

Philip  hesitates  a  moment  before  he  gives  her  the 
promise,  for  he  resolves  to  stop  her  if  she  has  anything 
to  reveal  to  him  that  is  inconsistent  with  his  honor  to 
keep  secret. 

"  My  name  is  Nora  O'Beirne ;"  here  she  pauses,  removes 
21 


242  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

her  vizard,  and  draws  a  packet  from  her  bosom.  "  I  have 
but  just  arrived  from  Madrid.  You  will  find  in  this  packet 
a  letter  of  introduction  from  my  friend  Mr.  Bubb,*  and 
also  a  message  from  his  eminence  the  Cardinal  Alberoni  I" 

He  looks  suspiciously  around,  but  she  reassures  him 
•with  a  gesture.  He  opens,  and  reads  the  letter  from  Mr. 
Bubb  first.  In  it  the  minister  highly  extols  Mistress 
O'Beirne,  and  praises  her  loyalty  to  the  government — 
a  recommendation  well  enough  by  itself,  but  rather  pecu 
liar  when  coupled  with  a  message  from  Alberoni — a  man 
whose  gigantic  mind  and  daring  courage  did  not  once 
quail  when  he  singly  defied  the  combined  powers  of  Eng 
land,  France,  and  Holland,  and  coolly  insulted  the 
haughty  court  of  Vienna. 

As  he  finishes  reading  the  Cardinal's  message,  his 
head  hums  with  vague  thoughts  and  half-formed  projects. 
The  wily  priest,  who  is  tolerably  conversant  with  Philip's 
character  through  the  accounts  of  his  emissaries  in 
London,  broaches  to  "  His  Grace,"  in  the  most  delicate 
manner,  the  advisability  of  "  His  Grace"  resuming  his 
allegiance  to  "His  Majesty  James  III. ;"  enlarges  on  the 
sufferings  of  the  exiled  monarch ;  sneers  at  the  "  happy 
Dutch  family;"  and  offers  him,  if  he  will  support  the 
Jacobite  cause,  the  command  of  a  large  Spanish  troop, 
an  order  of  knighthood  in  the  highest  order  of  Spain, 
and  a  large  amount  of  money  and  jewels. 

As  Philip  opened  the  message,  Mistress  O'Beirne  leaves 
him,  apparently  to  examine  the  many  tombs  on  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  aisle ;  but  she  momentarily  casts 
stealthy  glances  at  him,  and  anxiously  waits  for  him  to 
finish.  She  looks  perplexed  and  doubtful,  and  her  fan 
trembles  slightly  in  her  hand.  Philip's  good  resolutions 
almost  melt  away  at  the  Cardinal's  promises,  and  he 

*  The  British  Minister  at  Madrid. 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          243 

tries  to  balance  the  advantages  of  the  two  positions  with 
strict  impartiality — a  loyal  Whig,  or  a  traitorous  Tory  ? 
On  the  one.  side  his  estates  and  future  wealth  will  be 
confiscated,  and  his  name  attainted.  On  the  other,  he 
will  reap  glory  at  the  head  of  an  army,  receive  a  coveted 
order  of  knighthood,  and  a  large  sum  of  ready  money — 
an  important  item,  for  he  cannot  yet  have  full  control 
of  his  properties,  and,  although  his  allowance  is  large, 
his  expenses  are  far  beyond  it. 

For  nearly  an  hour  does  he  think  over  the  Cardinal's 
proposition  without  coming  to  a  decision.  "  If  I  but 
loved  George  more  and  James  less,  my  mind  would  be 

easy  in  quick  time;  but  one  the  S'life,  I'll  leave 

the  issue  to  Dame  Fortune  in  the  shape  of  Mistress 
O'Beirne."  And  he  calls  to  her,  and  says : — 

"Mistress  O'Beirne,  Mr.  Bubb's  letter  is  a  blind,  I 
suppose  ?" 

She  nods  assent. 

"  Alb — ,  the  other,  is  the  real  cause  of  your  embassy  ?" 

Again  she  nods. 

"  Very  well !  Now  I  will  take  my  dagger,  and  scratch 
two  marks  on  this  flag;"  she  looks  surprised  at  his 
manoeuvres,  but  follows  his  motions  with  watchful  eyes. 
He  continues:  "My  opinions  are  so  exactly  balanced, 
Mistress  O'Beirne,  that  I  intend  to  let  fortune  decide 
whether  I  shall  be  Hanoverian  or  Jacobite."  She  is 
amused  in  spite  of  her  anxiety  to  secure  him  for  her 
employer,  and  she  laughs  nervously.  Philip  resumes : 
"One  of  these  scratches  will  turn  me  Jacobite;  the  other 
will  keep  me  Hanoverian.  I  will  be  that  which  your 
pretty  foot  shall  first  touch."  He  scratches  two  long 
lines  on  the  stone  flag,  and  moves  a  few  steps  backward. 
She  replies :  "  I  entreat  your  grace  to  consider  the  ques 
tion  more  seriously  !  you — " 

He  shakes  his  head  and  points  calmly  to  the  scratches. 


244  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

She  flushes,  as  she  resumes  with  a  forced  smile: 
"  Really,  your  grace  affects  an  odd  way  of  determining  a 
choice  in  which  loyalty,  fame,  and  pecuniary  rewards  are 
pitted  against  a  fancied  attachment  to  a  Dutch  usurper ! 
But  if  you  will  have  it  so — Holy  Mary,  help  me  to  save 
your  grace  from  an  inglorious  disloyalty  to  your  true 
king!"  She  places  her  foot  on  the  scratch  nearest 
Philip. 

"Is  that  your  choice,  Mistress  O'Beirne?"  he  asks, 
with  a  half  relieved  expression  on  his  face. 

"  Yes,  your  grace,"  she  replies,  and  her  face  becomes 
slightly  paler  and  anxious. 

"  Then  long  live King  George,  and  success  to  the 

Hanoverian  line !" 

She  turns  scarlet  at  his  words,  and  exclaims :  "  Lost ! 
and  Alberoni  foiled  by  a  farcical '  chance' His  Emi 
nence's  message,  your  grace  ?" 

"  Here  it  is !"  he  replies,  and  he  turns  to  pick  it  up 
from  the  seat  of  a  stall  on  which  he  left  it ;  but  it  has 
disappeared.  She  notices  his  start,  and  exclaims :  "  Your 
grace,  that  letter  must  be  found !  Your  have  dealt  fairly 
by  me,  and  I  have  lost,  and  I  would  not  like  to  see  your 
grace  impeached  for  high  treason,  as  you  certainly  would 
be  if  that  letter  were  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  an  enemy 
to  you." 

He  replies  earnestly :  "  Yes,  it  must  be  found ;  it 
cannot  be  far  away!" 

But  it  cannot  be  found.  High  and  low  they  seek  for 
it,  but  all  their  efforts  are  in  vain,  and  finally  they  are 
forced  to  come  to  the  disagreeable  conclusion  that  it  is 
lost. 

"Your  grace,"  says  Mistress  O'Beirne,  in  a  bitter, 
regretful  tone,  "  it  is  useless  for  me  to  urge  you  further. 
His  Eminence  has  explained  to  you  all  the  advantages 
that  you  can  gain  by  returning  to  37our  true  allegiance ; 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  245 

and  as  my  unlucky  mission  is  accomplished  I  will  return 
to  Madrid,  and  encounter  his  reproaches  for  my  unfor 
tunate  failure.  I  shall  probably  never  see  you  again ;  so 
I  will  bid  you  good-bye,  and  wish  you  every  success  in 
your  mistaken  future." 

She  extends  her  hand,  which  he  presses  kindly,  draws 
her  veil  over  her  face,  and  walks  slowly  down  the  aisle 
and  disappears  through  the  open  doors. 

In  consequence  of  the  triple  alliance,  the  Pretender 
was  forced  to  cross  the  Alps  and  reside  in  Rome  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Pontifical  cloak.  While  there,  Albe- 
roni  corresponded  directly  with  him,  and  urged  him  to 
rouse  all  his  energies  for  another  invasion  of  England, 
which  should  be  headed  either  by  himself  or  Ormond, 
and  he  also  sent  him  many  assurances  of  the  king's 
warmest  sympathy  and  assistance.  In  Spain  Philip  is 
governed  alternately  by  his  confessor  and  by  his  mis 
tress,  the  black-eyed,  laughing  Senorita  Dona  Inez,  who 
in  turn  are  the  queen's  tools,  whom  Alberoni  moves  to 
his  will  like  a  jointed  puppet.  In  disposition  and  temper 
Philip  is  very  like  the  Pretender,  but  with  even  less 
honor  and  energy.  But  even  if  he  had  more  energy  and 
self-reliance,  the  former  country  curate  would  doubtless 
absorb  them  in  his  own  impetuous  genius,  except  indeed 
he  possessed  a  Cromwell's  iron  mind  and  unswervable 
will. 


21* 


246  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Pro  tempore. 

PHILIP'S  career  in  the  Irish  Parliament  reads  like  a 
romance.  Never,  in  the  annals  of  Irish  history,  had  there 
been  an  admission  under  age  except  in  this  instance. 
His  winning  address,  oratorical  powers,  and  his  wonder 
fully  precocious  talents  are  the  talk  of  London  as  well 
as  Dublin.  Wherever  he  goes,  he  is  sure  to  meet  with  a 
flattering  welcome  and  the  attention  of  old  and  young ; 
for  his  power  of  adapting  himself  to  the  capacity  of  those 
with  whom  he  is  thrown  in  contact  causes  all  to  respect 
and  love  him,  from  the  enthusiastic  lad  still  in  his  teens 
to  the  veteran  politician  or  lawyer.  The  Whigs  speak 
of  him  as  their  future  leader,  and  prophesy  great  things 
of  him.  His  past  offences  are  now  regarded  as  the  mere 
coruscations  of  the  too  forward  intellect,  and  are  condoned 
accordingly.  In  various  discussions  in  which  he  has 
taken  part  in  the  House,  his  arguments  have  been  so  clear 
and  conclusive,  his  delivery  and  reasoning  so  admirable, 
that  the  side  on  which  he  has  thrown  his  voice  has  been 
uniformly  successful. 

The  government,  anxious  to  show  its  appreciation  of 
his  services  in  defending  a  bill  of  vital  importance  to 
them,  has  created  him  Duke  of  Wharton,  and  moreover 
set  forth  in  the  patent  that  "  this  is  but  an  earnest  of 
still  further  favors  which  you  may  reap  if  you  continue 
in  the  course  you  have  begun."  His  private  life  has  been 
almost  irreproachable.  Margery  has  been  living  with 
him  for  the  last  year  and  a  half  in  an  uninterrupted  state 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'8   CAREER.  247 

of  domestic  felicity.  To  Philip's  great  joy  she  promises 
soon  to  be  a  mother.  Under  these  circumstances,  he 
proposes  to  her  that  she  shall  return  to  Bucks  for  awhile, 
•where  he  will  follow  her  in  a  week  or  so — a  proposition 
to  which  she  unwillingly  acquiesced  for  she  dreads  to  be 
away  from  him.  { 

We  will  enter  and  view  our  reformed  rake  in  the  light 
of  a  good  husband  and  a  steady  Whig.  The  room  is 
fitted  up  in  the  most  expensive,  even  extravagant  man 
ner,  and  the  different  ornaments  and  curiosities  in  it 
evince  an  oddly  fantastic,  but  refined  taste.  It  is  not 
cold,  but  a  glowing  fire  crackles  on  .the  hearth  and  diffuses 
an  aromatic  odor  of  sandal-wood  and  cedar — woods 
which  Philip  is  fond  of  smelling,  and  burns  accordingly. 
A  round,  ebony  table,  whose  surface  is  a  clear,  polished 
slab  of  steel,  is  drawn  near  the  fragrant  blaze,  and  beside 
it  sits  Philip  and  Margery  conversing  about  her  intended 
departure.  He  passes  his  hand  down  her  cheek,  and 
says  in  an  anxious  voice :  "  Margery,  you  look  unwell — 
feverish.  Let  me  ring  for  a  dish  of  tea!"  and  he  taps 
on  a  little  silver  bell,  and  the  summons  is  answered 
immediately  by  a  liveried  lackey.  "  Her  grace  wishes  a 
dish  of  tea ;  and,  hark  ye,  bring  a  decanter  of  brandy 
with  it !" 

"  Yes,  your  grace  I" 

"  Philip,"  says  Margery,  as  the  door  closes,  "  why  do 
you  drink  that  fieiy  stuff?  In  time  it  will  surely  make 
you  nervous  and  irritable." 

He  answers  with  a  laugh :  "  In  that  case,  wifie,  I 
shall  be  reduced  to  the  dire  necessity  of  physicking 
myself  with  a  decoction  of  hicra-picra  and  aqua  vita. 
But  I  '11  risk  it  for  the  sake  of  the  grapy  flavor  the 
brandy  leaves  in  my  throat." 

"  I  never  knew  you  were  so  fond  of  the  grape  before, 
Philip.  I  '11  get  you  tons  of  them  if  you  will  give  up  the 


248  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST    ENEMY  ; 

brandy!"  And  she  looks  triumphant,  as  if  her  point  is 
gained  ;  but  he  replies : — 

"  You  argue  well,  my  little  lawyer ;  but  your  case  is 
lost !  I  prefer  my  brandy  and  grapes  together,  for,  as 
the  axiom  says,  '  In  toto  et  pars  continentur /'  " 

The  lackey  returns,  and  carefully  spreads  a  damask 
cover  on  the  steel  surface  before  he  Idys  on  it  the  waiter, 
on  which  stand  in  company  the  brandy  and  the  tea  with 
a  dish  of  caraways.  Philip  swallows  a  glass  of  the 
former,  nibbles  at  a  cake,  and  stretches  himself  lazily 
back  in  his  chair.  He  is  more  manly  now,  and  his  mous 
taches  have  some  pretence  of  visibility  and  tangibility. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  all  day,  Margery  ?" 

"  Everything,"  she  laughingly  replies.  "  Let  me  see ! 
I  was  dressed — I  breakfasted — oh  1  do  stop  asking  me 
tiresome  questions,  Philip.  I  want  to  enjoy  my  tea 
quietly." 

"  Ah,  I  see ;  you  've  been  as  usual  busy  about  nothing." 

She  replies  pettishly :  "  You  were  not  admitted  to  the 
sight,  at  any  rate,  so  you  need  not  laugh !" 

Margery  looks  very  lovable  as  she  nestles  in  the  cosey 
arm-chair  and  extends  her  slippered  feet  to  the  crum 
bling  logs.  This  night  she  keeps  entirely  for  Philip  and 
herself,  and  her  instructions  to  the  servant  are  to  let  no 
one  disturb  them  short  of  his  majesty  or  her  father,  and 
of  these  she  expects  neither.  She  is  in  an  enchanting 
dishabille,  and  her  hair  tumbles  in  a  mass  on  her  bare 
shoulders. 

"  What  did  you  do  in  the  House  to-day  ? — But  never 
mind !  I  am  afraid  you  will  give  me  some  long,  weari 
some  descriptions  of  a  speech  from  my  Lord  Prosy  this, 
or  his  Lordship  Tiresome  that,  or — " 

"  Never  fear,  saucebox.  I  '11  tell  you  about  my  fling 
at  Lord  Kellmoll,  who  had  the  audacity  to  insinuate 
that  I  was  overbold  for  my  years !" 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  249 

"  As  I  live-!  what  an  ill-bred  fellow !"  she  exclaims, 
angrily.  "  What  did  you  say  to  him  ?  Quick — tell  me ! 
How  you  must  have  punished  him  1" 

He  replies  calmly :  "  Certainly.  I  never  allow  inso 
lence  to  go  unchastised.  I  told  him  that  '  if  age  consti 
tuted  wisdom,  and  youth  folly,  I  succumbed  to  him.'  At 
the  same  time,  I  prayed  to  the  gods  I  might  always  re 
main  young,  or  at  least  never  be  able  to  ascend  so  high 
on  Minerva's  mount  as  had  his  lordship." 

"  You  served  him  right,  Philip ;  only  you  should — I 
mean,  how  crestfallen  the  poor  man  must  have  been!" 

"  Well,  little  one,  he  provoked  me  to  it,  you  know." 

She  acquiesces  in  the  force  of  his  reasoning,  and  looks 
intently  among  the  smouldering  embers  to  discover 
omens  of  births,  deaths,  or  marriages;  and  lo!  in  the 
corner  nearest  Philip  she  sees  as  plain  as  daylight,  a 
cradle !  "  Oh  I  Philip,  come  here !  Look !  look !  see  the 
— "  and  she  stops.  He  hurriedly  rises  from  his  chair  to 
discover  the  cause  of  her  exclamations.  She  does  not 
conclude  her  sentence,  but  blushes  as  red  as  her  own 
English  roses,  and  buries  her  face  in  the  chair.  Philip 
sees  no  cause  for  alarm,  and  replies:  "Margery,  I  think 
I  shall  order  a  dose  of  hicra-picra  for  you  instead  of  my 
self,  if  you  persist  in  this  nonsensical  conduct ;"  and  he 
reseats  himself,  and  laughs  loudly  at  her  attitude,  for  she 
is  cuddled  up  all  in  a  lump,  and  her  hair  hangs  over  the 
arm  of  the  chair,  and  falls  to  the  floor  in  a  wavy,  shim 
mering  mass. 

After  this  episode,  they  pass  the  time  very  pleasantly 
in  discussing  questions  of  literature  and  the  fashions, 
and  of  the  most  "  modish"  style  of  dressing  the  hair — 
whether  the  small  steel  shoe-buckles  are  superior  or 
equal  to  the  richer  and  more  elaborate  jewelled  ones ; 
and  in  mutual  remembrances  of  dear  old  Bucks. 

Early  the  next  morning  Margery  set  out  for  Bucks 


250  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

.     fc 

under  the  protection  of  Count  Hussite  and  his  lady. 
The  day  was  bright  and  clear,  and  the  water  shone 
resplendent  with  the  sun's  warm  rays,  and  everything 
promised  a  safe  and  speedy  voyage. 


CHAPTER  XXXY1. 

"Persuasion  tips  his  tongue  whene'er  he  talks." 

Graced  as  thou  art  with  nil  the  power  of  words, 
So  known,  so  honored,  at  the  House  of  Lords. 

POPE. 

PHILIP  is  standing  on  the  floor  of  the  House  busily 
engaged  in  arguing  a  point  at  law  with  Lord  Hintflam — 
a  veteran  speaker  and  parliamentary  tactician.  Says 
his  lordship :  "  Your  grace,  it  would  run  counter  to  the 
statute  which  was  framed  to  correct  that  very  evil." 
Philip  is  about  to  reply,  when  he  is  interrupted  by  a 
messenger  who  whispers  in  his  ear  the  intelligence  of  the 
birth  of  an  heir  to  his  name,  and  he  leaves  the  House 
immediately. 

Philip's  heart  beats  high  as  he  walks  rapidly  home 
wards,  and  he  feels  himself  to  be  a  greater,  nobler  man 
than  before,  and  the  future  programme  of  his  son's  life 
is  already  laid  out.  "  It  shall  not  be  like  his  own  in 
every  respect;  but  he  shall  be  a  Whig,  and  a  great  man 
of  course!"  Finally  his  thoughts  end  in  a  determina 
tion  to  visit  Bucks  again  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  the 
infant  scion  of  a  noble  sire. 

*  #  *  *  *  * 

Philip  shakes  the  General  by  the  hand  in  the  most 
violent  manner,  and  they  joyfully  congratulate  each 
other  on  the  happy  event.  The  head-nurse — a  fussy, 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          251 

testy  body,  arrayed  in  a  black  cap  of  portentous  size 
and  stiffness — leads  Philip,  with  all  important  gestures, 
to  the  room.  Margery  is  overjoyed  to  see  him,  and  she 
proudly  shows  him  their  son.  "  Philip,  darling,  the 
nurse  tells  me  that  she  never  saw  in  all  her  life  such  a 
pretty  baby." 

"  She  is  a  sensible  woman,  and  her  services  must  be 
well  rewarded,"  replies  Philip ;  and  he  kisses  the  end  of 
its  little  nose  in  admiring  happiness,  and  then  beats  a 
retreat  from  the  severely  watchful  eye  of  the  head-nurse. 

"That  night  Philip  and  the  General  sit  up  very  late, 
and  consume  uncounted  goblets  of  well-spiced  punch.  I 
will  add  that  the  standing  toast  was :  "  The  young  one's 
health,  and  his  future  prosperity." 

Philip  stays  at  Holme  Grange  for  nearly  a  month, 
during  which  time  he  amuses  himself  in  hunting,  fishing, 
and  various  other  pastimes,  not  forgetting  the  dandling 
of  the  baby.  Then  he  begins  to  tire  of  rustic  happiness, 
and  to  long  for  the  gayeties  and  excitements  of  town 
life. 

They  are  eating  supper,  and  Philip  has  just  declared 
that  he  has  important  business  in  town  which  must  be 
attended  to  at  once ;  to  which  Margery  replies,  with  a 
pleading  look :  "  Am  I  to  go  along  with  you,  Philip  ?" 

"  No,  Margery,"  he  says,  regretfully,  "it  is  impossible ; 
I  must  post  with  the  utmost  despatch ;  but  I  will  return 
in  a  few  days — at  least,  I  hope  so !"  She  replies : — 

"  I  hope  you  will.  I  always  feel  lonely  when  you  are 
away,  for  father  is  always  busy  about  his  own  affairs, 
and  he  has  no  time  to  spare  with  me.  If  I  had  not  my 
little  darling  to  keep  me  company,  I  should  certainly  not 
let  you  go  without  me ;  but  come  back  as  soon  as  ever 
you  can." 

"  S'life  !  Margery,  you  can  rely  on  me,  I'  11  not  stay  in 
London  any  longer  than  I  can  help."  She  looks  half- 


252  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

doubtful;  but  drinks  her  tea  in  silence.  Philip  con 
tinues  in  fatherly  tones :  "  Take  great  care  of  the  child, 
wifie !"  She  indignantly  tosses  her  head  at  this  piece  of 
unnecessary  advice ;  as  if  it  were  possible  she  could  be 
careless  of  his — their  son. 

We  will  precede  this  unwilling  traveller  to  London, 
and  look  about  us  for  old  sights  and  familiar  faces. 
Philip's  mansion  is  now  finished  and  ready  for  occupa 
tion.  The  decorators  and  cabinet-makers  have  left  their 
little  mementoes  on  the  table  in  the  ebony  room,  where 
he  will  be  sure  to  see  them  when  he  enters.  The  sides 
of  this  room  are  panelled  with  polished  ebony,  and  the 
ceiling  is  ornamented  by  fretted  rafters  picked  in  with 
gold  as  a  relief  to  the  sombre  black.  His  arms  are 
carved  in  every  panel,  while  the  violet  windows  also  dis 
play  his  quarterings.  This  peculiar  apartment  he  designs 
to  keep  sacred  to  himself  alone,  "  not  even  the  house 
maid  shall  enter ;  he  will  keep  it  in  order  himself."  Its 
minor  decorations  may  in  a  measure  account  for  his 
aversion  to  visitors.  Underneath  the  centre  window  is  a 
Prie-Dieu  and  a  hassock  of  black  velvet  to  kneel  upon. 
On  a  curiously  carved  pentagonal  table  behind  the  Prie- 
Dieu  is  a  Parian  statue  of  the  Virgin  Mary  with  hands 
extended  in  the  act  of  invoking  a  benediction.  Philip 
bought  it  in  Paris.  Its  workmanship  is  perfect ;  a  halo 
of  mild  piety  seems  to  burst  from  the  white  face,  and  in 
the  sightle'ss  eyes  there  is  a  vague  expression  of  purity 
and  holiness.  Around  her,  long  white  tapers  stand  out 
in  bold  relief  against  the  rich  dark  windows.  There  is 
also  an  amber  rosary ;  and  a  Latin  missal  incongruously 
leans  against  a  toy  that  Philip  also  bought  in  Paris.  It 
is  a  flesh-tinted  copy  of  Praxitele's  Cnidian  Venus — the 
immortalized  form  of  the  courtesan  Phryne,  and  the 
wondrous  work  which  alone  rescued  Cnidus  from  ob 
scurity  and  gave  it  a  history. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  253 

To  this  room  there  is  apparently  no  means  of  entrance ; 
no  door  is  visible.  How,  then,  can  Philip  enter  this,  his 
sanctum  sanctorum  ?  Click !  rings  the  noise  of  an  open 
ing  spring,  and  a  small  door  concealed  in  the  panelling 
falls  down,  and  Philip  enters.  "  Faith !  it 's  solemn 
enough !"  he  exclaims,  with  a  shrug.  "  The  darkness 
strikes  a  chill  through  me  with  its  depressing  gloom." 
He  throws  off  his  hat  and  cloak,  kneels  down  before  the 
Prie-Dieu,  and  recites  a  paternoster  in  a  low  but 
sonorous  voice.  This  finished,  he  makes  an  inclination 
to  the  Virgin,  and  rises.  He  attempts  to  light  one  of 
the  tapers,  but  his  flint  fails  to  do  its  duty ;  and  with  a 
half-uttered  curse  he  relinquishes  his  intention,  and  sits 
down  on  the  hassock  to  consider  what  he  will  do,  where 
he  will  go,  and  on  whom  he  will  call  to  help  him  to 
enjoy  the  pleasures  of  which  he  determines  .to  taste 
quite  freely  before  he  returns  to  his  humdrum  life  at 
Bucks. 

"  There  's  Harry  Hauteforte ;  he  will  do  if  I  can  think 
of  none  better ;  or  there  's  Peterborough — wofully  con 
ceited  and  arrogant,  but  a  jolly  dog  and  vastly  clever  in 
his  ways !  I  must  see  him — I  wonder  whether  Mr.  Young 
is  in  town!  I  would  wager  fifty  guineas  he  is  either 
dangling  at  St.  James's,  or  else  puffing  some  influential 
idiot  with  fulsome  flattery.  At  all  events,  I  '11  run  down 
to  the  Rainbow,  and  watch  who  lays  his  penny  on  the 
bar,"  and  he  rises,  creeps  through  his  secret  doorway, 
and  emerges  into  the  street,  where  a  chair  soon  carries 
him  to  the  Rainbow  coffee-house  in  Fleet  Street. 

He  lays  his  fee  on  the  bar,  and  orders  the  particular 
dish  for  which  this  house  is  famed — stewed  cheeses  and 
oat  cakes.  Charon  Skewer,  the  noted  highwayman  who 
has  eased  the  pockets  of  half  London  in  his  time,  and 
who  chances  to  know  Philip  by  sight,  cries:  "  Ah,  your- 
grace !  'tis  a  plaguy  long  time  since  I  have  had  the 
22 


254  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY  J 

pleasure  of  a  canary  cup  with  you!"  Unluckily  for 
Charon,  Philip  is  aware  of  his  character,  and  he  answers 
not  a  word,  but  draws  himself  up  scornfully,  and  with  a 
right-about  turn  he  gives  him  the  expanse  of  his  back  to 
look  upon.  "A  murrain  on  his  ill-breeding!"  mutters 
Charon,  and  he  strikes  up  a  conversation  with  the  bar 
maid  to  hide  his  discomfiture ;  while  an  elderly  man, 
whose  appearance  betokens  wealth  and  refinement,  ex 
claims,  "Well  done,  your  grace!  served  him  right." 
Philip  looks  toward  the  speaker,  and  says,  "  Sir  James, 
this  is  an  unexpected  pleasure.  I  thought  you  were  at 
Ipswich  among  the  hawthorn  lanes?" 

"  I  was  there,"  Sir  James  replies,  "  but  London  has 
charms  which  never  pall,  and  I  have  returned  again  to 
my  old  haunts." 

"  For  which  I  am  thankful,  as  I  find  so  good  a  com 
panion,  and  so  merciless  an  enemy  of  Madame  Ennui,  of 
whom  you  have  probably  heard  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  never  experienced  her  attentions." 

"Fortunate  man!"  replies  Philip. 

Sir  James  Thornhill  is  sergeant  painter  to  the  king. 
He  was  once  very  wealthy,  but  fashionable  excesses  have 
reduced  him  considerably,  and  it  is  his  daughter  who  is 
Hogarth's  future  wife.  Beside  him  sits  a  gayly  dressed 
cavalier  whose  handsome  face  is  tinged  with  a  grave  sad 
ness.  He  salutes  Philip  in  courtly  phrases,  and  flatters 
him  in  the  most  unconscionable  manner.  This  is  Edward 
Young,  who  not  only  composed  "  Night  Thoughts,"  but 
also  wrote  the  most  fulsome,  adulatory  poem  which  ever 
disgraced  any  age,  "  The  Epistle  to  Lord  Lansdowne." 
'Though  nominally  his  friend,  Philip  openly  shows  his 
contempt  for  the  poet's  truckling  servility.  Philip's 
hand  is  now  grasped  by  the  erratic  genius,  Charles  Mor- 
daunt,  Earl  of  Peterborough.  Mordaunt  is  small,  and 
singularly  spare  in  person ;  his  features  are  attractive, 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  255 

and  his  nose  is  prominent ;  his  eyes  are  lively  and  pene 
trating,  and  his  face  is  rather  long  and  meagre.  He  has 
come  to  town  to  take  part  in  the  debates  of  the  session. 
He  addresses  Philip  with  the  bluff  heartiness  and  jovial 
good  nature  of  a  soldier. 

They  all  sit  down  together,  and  order  a  plentiful  supply 
of  canary.  In  the  course  of  the  conversation,  Peter 
borough  says  to  Philip :  "  Your  grace,  I  hear  that  Albe- 
roni  is  to  assist  the  Chevalier  in  another  attempt.  He 
is  even  now  fitting  out  an  immense  armament  at  Cadiz, 
and  he  is  said  to  rely  greatly  on  friends  in  England.  It 
will  be  a  hazardous  matter  for  any  one  to  have  aught  to 
do  with  this  next  effort.  It  will  be  a  short  thrift  and  a 
long  rope ;  I  should  be  loath  to  see  any  of  my  friends 
favor  a  scheme  so  foolhardy  as  that  of  the  Cardinal's." 

The  Earl  says  this  so  meaningly  that  Philip  begins  to 
wonder  whether  he  conveys  the  warning  as  a  hint  to 
himself  or  not,  and  he  regrets  the  loss  of  the  message  in 
the  cathedral  at  Dublin. 

Peterborough  now  calls  out :  "  More  wine,  fair  Hebe ! 
more  wine !"  and  he  trolls  out 

"  That  which  most  doth  take  my  muse  and  me 
Is  sure  a  cup  of  rich  canary  wine." 

"Ah  ha!"  laughs  Thornhill,  his  whole  body  shaking 
with  his  merriment.  "  Peterborough's  muse !  I  appeal  to 
your  grace  whether  he  should  not  be  fined  an  additional 
bottle  for  mentioning  impossible  monstrosities?" 

Young,  who  is  invariably  the  last  speaker,  laughs  at 
Philip's  answer  of  "Certainly!"  and  adds, -"It  left  him 
when  his  majesty  came  in." 

The  earl  flushes  as  he  replies,  "  Yes,  Mr.  Young,  and  I 
went  out  along  with  it  to  make  room  for  one  who  has 
since  managed  to  scrape  his  way  into  decent  society  and 
ape  his  betters." 


256  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Young  feels  the  taunt,  but,  true  to  his  policy  of  ingra 
tiating  himself,  he  only  smiles  and  requests  the  "  favor 
of  a  cup  with  him." 

"  Gome,  gentlemen,"  says  Philip,  "  let  us  take  a  stroll 
through  Fleet  Street ;"  and  at  his  request  they  rise  and 
walk  out.  As  they  pass  by  Dick's  coffee-house,  the 
Earl  notices  a  friend  of  his  at  the  bar,  who  is  both 
wealthy  and  miserly ;  and  he  throws  a  shilling  through 
the  window  to  the  maid,  and  exclaims  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  For  my  Lord  Sansor !  Take  out  your  penny,  and  give 
him  a  custard  for  the  change  ;"  a  remark  which  creates 
a  laugh  against  the  cavalier  pointed  out,  who  lays  his 
hand  on  his  rapier  hilt  for  a  moment,  but  instantly  with 
drawing  it,  however,  when  the  Earl  notices  his  movement. 
Philip  proposes  a  visit  to  that  hotbed  of  Toryism,  Saint 
James'  Coffee-house,  and  thither  they  go. 

They  enter  in  a  noisy,  careless  manner,  which  causes 
some  of  the  quieter  frequenters  of  the  place  to  scowl 
disapprovingly.  They  indulge  in  several  glasses  of 
punch,  and  sandwiches  of  prime  Yorkshire  beef,  and 
before  they  leave,  Peterborough  mounts  a  table,  takes  off 
his  hat,  and  whirls  it  above  his  head  while  he  exclaims : 
Oyez !  oyez !  my  lords  and  gentlemen,  attend  all  to  the 
great  Mordanto.  He  intends  to  recite  to  you  a  selec 
tion  from  a  great  divine's  greatest  poem — the  subject,  to 
be  sure,  has  something  to  do  with  its  sublimity."  The 
inmates  of  the  house  direct  their  attention  to  this  ad 
dress,  and  many  crowd  around  the  table  in  expectation 
of  amusement.  He  enunciates  with  dramatic  gestures 
and  grandiloquent  airs  the  following  squib  of  Swift's : — 

Mordanto  fills  the  trump  of  fame, 

The  Christian  world  his  deeds  proclaim, 

And  prints  are  crowded  with  his  name. 

In  journeys  he  outrides  the  post, 
Sits  up  till  midnight  with  his  host, 
Talks  politics  and  gives  the  toast. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE    OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          251 

Knows  every  prince  in  Europe's  face, 
Flies  like  a  squib  from  place  to  place, 
And  travels  not,  but  runs  a  race. 

Heroic  actions  early  bred  in, 

Ne'er  to  be  matched  in  modern  reading, 

But  by  his  namesake,  Charles  of  Sweden. 

He  is  listened  to  in  silence  until  lie  finishes,  when  there 
ensue  roars  of  laughter  at  his  tipsy  rendering  of  the 
poems.  He  adds  gravely :  "  The  only  thing  which  I  find 
fault  with  in  the  poem  is  the  comparison  between  my 
self  and  Charles!  I  protest  against  being  reduced  to 
his  level!" 

As  the  uproar  subsides,  Philip  fills  a  cup,  and  ex 
claims,  "  Gentlemen,  to  his  grace  of  Shrewsbury  and 
Alberoni — the  one  an  enemy  to  the  world,  the  other  to 
England;  may — "  Loud  cries  drown  the  rest  of  the 
toast,  and  the  crowd  begin  to  hustle  Philip  and  his 
party  quite  roughly  until  the  Earl,  Sir  James,  and  Philip 
draw  their  rapiers  and  form  a  front  which  does  not 
invite  too  close  quarters.  •  Philip,  who  is  half  tipsy  and 
reckless,  swears  to  finish  his  toast,  and  resumes :  "  May 
they  be  bound  together  in  h — ,  and  be  doomed  to  gnaw 
at"  each  other  for  all  eternity  1" 

Symptoms  of  a  dangerous  fracas  now  begin  to  appear. 
Belts  are  tightened,  and  swords  half  drawn  by  many  who 
were  favorable  to  Shrewsbury  while  living,  and  who  are 
enraged  at  the  wanton  insult  to  his  memory,  and  hisses 
and  curses  resound  through  the  room. 

Philip  cries  to  Young :  "  Draw,  man,  draw !  We  shall 
have  to  fight  our  way  out  of  this.  There  is  no  end  to 
the  Jacobite  fire-eaters  amongst  yon  pack  o'  fools." 

"A  Mordanto !  a  Mordanto!"  yells  Peterborough, 
and,  maddened  with  rage  and  wine,  he  thrusts  viciously 
in  front  of  him.  "  S 'blood !  if  ye  do  not  make  a  path  for 

22* 


258  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

us  out  of  this  den  of  thieves  and  cut-purses,  we  '11  slash 
one."  And  he  draws  back  his  arm. 

How  it  would  end  if  the  watch  did  not  push  in  and 
separate  the  crowd,  it  is  hard  to  say.  Their  leader 
orders  everybody  out  of  the  room  except  those  with 
drawn  swords — a  command  which  produces  sundry  clicks 
and  raspings  as  rapiers  are  hurriedly  sheathed.  None 
of  Philip's  party  follow  this  wise  example,  however, 
except  Young,  who  slips  behind  the  watch,  and  leaves 
the  room  in  a  hurried  manner.  The  honest  guardians 
of  the  peace  now  begin  to  remonstrate  with  their  "  Lud- 
ships,"  and  "  regret  the  necessity  of  taking  them  to  the 
round-house ;  but  it  is  their  duty,  and  must  be  done ;" 
protestations  which  Philip  silences  by  thrusting  two  or 
three  gold  pieces  into  the  hand  of  the  spokesman ;  a 
never-failing  stratagem,  and  they  leave  perfectly  con 
tented. 

"Egad!"  exclaims  Peterborough,  "we  raked  them  up, 
Wharton  1" 

"  You  say  truly,  Mordaunt ;  and  it  shall  not  be  the 
last  time,  eh  ?" 

Sir  James  asks,  in  thick,  hiccuping  tones,  "  Where 's 
Young  ?  Has  he  made  wings  unto  himself  and  flown  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replies  the  Earl ;  "  'tis  an  old  trick  of  his. 
When  steel  shines,  Young  leaves." 

The  landlord  unbars  the  door,  and  lets  his  noisy  guests 
out  again,  and  they  are  greeted  with  groans  and  hisses 
by  the  crowd  standing  on  the  pavement.  They  answer 
with  scornful  jeers,  and  dare  any  gentleman  to  a  few 
passadoes  with  them!  but  none  respond  to  the  invita 
tion,  for  both  Philip  and  the  Earl  are  known  as  thorough 
experts  with  the  rapier ;  and  Sir  James,  though  not  so 
famous,  is  yet  a  dangerous  opponent. 

They  ruffle  it  gallantly  back  to  Fleet  Street,  where 
they  are  joined  by  Sir  Harry  Hauteforte,  who  has  been 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          259 

"  biting  Bacchus"  a  bit  himself,  and  he  is  about  as  bois 
terous  as  any  of  the  party.  A  cavalier,  who  is  walking 
on  the  opposite  pavement,  happens  to  look  over  at  our 
party,  and  he  smiles  amusedly,  which  so  rouses  Philip's 
ire  that  he  calls  over  to  him  in  an  insolent  manner :  "  Sir, 
the  scent  of  your  wig  offends  me  greatly !  I  pray  you 
step  here,  and  give  me  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman, 
for  I  call  you  arrant  knave  and  jackanapes !"  and  he 
handles  his  rapier.  The  cavalier  thus  roughly  accosted, 
instead  of  coming  over  to  avenge  his  wounded  honor, 
passes  on  with  a  flushed  face  and  a  quick  step ;  while 
Philip  calls  after  him,  "  Coward  1  braggart !"  and  he  reels 
after  his  companions  who  have  gone  ahead. 


CHAPTEE  XXXVII. 

"  For  he  was  a  lord's  own  son." 

BALLAD  OP  QLASOERION. 

Some  in  clandestine  companies  combine; 
Erect  new  stocks  to  trade  beyond  the  line ; 
With  air  and  empty  names  beguile  the  town, 
And  raise  new  credits  first,  then  cry  'em  down." 

DEFOE. 

Though  wondering  senates  hung  on  all  he  spoke, 
The  club  must  hail  him  master  of  the  joke. 

POPE. 

His  majesty  has  returned  from  his  German  states,  and 
has  opened  Parliament  in  person.  The  most  important 
measure  discussed  is  the  celebrated  Peerage  bill.  Once 
before,  the  creation  of  twelve  peers  was  inserted  in  the 
articles  of  a  peer's  impeachment ;  but  the  bill  is  expected 
to  pass  in  the  House  of  Lords  without  the  slightest 
opposition,  and  although  the  Tories  in  the  Commons 


260  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

fight  against  it,  the  Whigs  have  a  large  majority.  It  is 
on  this  bill  that  Addison  and  Steele,  once  firm  friends, 
take  opposite  sides  as  the  "  old  Whig"  and  the  "  Plebeian." 
To  everybody's  surprise  the  Commons  reject  the  bill 
almost  unanimously,  and  Stanhope  and  Sunderland  are 
foiled  in  their  darling  project;  while  Walpole,  who 
opposes  it  strongly,  is  highly  praised  for  his  share  in  its 
defeat.  Philip  carefully  watches  the  progress  of  the  bill, 
and  when  it  is  defeated,  he  speaks  admiringly  to  all 
about  him  of  the  "  Independence  of  the  Commons," 
whereat  many  are  astonished  to  hear  such  suspicious 
sentiments  from  so  warm  a  Whig  as  he  has  been. 

Philip  received  a  blow  at  this  time  which  almost  broke 
his  heart.  Margery  had  become  lonely  and  nervous  at 
Bucks,  and  fearful  lest  Philip  might  go  back  to  his  old 
courses,  or  be  taken  sick  and  lack  proper  attention,  she 
had  come  to  London,  and  brought  the  child  with  her. 
Philip  reproached  her  for  the  step,  and  ordered  her  to 
return  at  once,  for  fear  of  infection  from  the  smallpox, 
which  was  raging  at  that  time.  She  obeyed  him ;  but  it 
was  too  late.  In  a  few  days  he  received  the  news  of  his 
son's  death.  He  shut  himself  up  for  nearly  a  week,  and 
refused  to  see  any  one ;  indeed,  he  would  scarcely  eat ;  but 
instead  he  drank  large  quantities  of  brandy  which  dead 
ened  his  grief  as  well  as  satisfied  his  hunger.  His  ser 
vants  denied  all  visitors :  "  They  are  his  grace's  orders !" 
was  the  only  answer  that  inquiring  friends  received.  His 
grief  was  very  poignant.  He  had  set  such  great  store  on 
his  boy,  and  he  hated  poor  Margery  with  all  his  heart  as 
the  cause  of  his  loss.  He  did  not  once  write  to  her,  but 
sent  his  commands  to  the  steward  to  have  the  body  buried 
with  all  the  honors,  and  he  would  not  go  down  to  super 
intend  the  burial.  When  he  re-entered  society  he  firmly 
repulsed  all  offers  of  sympathy,  and  sternly  forbade  all 
mention  of  his  loss  within  his  hearing. 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S  CAREER.  261 

He  is  now  the  President  of  the  Hellfire  Club — a  set  of 
blasphemous  profligates.  He  was  solicited  to  be  a  mem 
ber,  but  he  declined  except  he  should  be  made  president, 
and  sooner  than  lose  him  the  club  agreed  to  his  demand, 
and  he  is  now  publicly  known  as  the  leader  of  "  the  most 
shameless,  impious  crew  that  ever  existed."  He  is  far 
more  reckless  and  heedless  of  all  restraints  now  than  he 
ever  was  before;  and  he  brings  things  to  a  crisis  by 
avowing  himself  a  Tory  and  a  Jacobite,  an  avowal  which 
requires  a  bold  heart  and  a  steady  hand  to  support. 

Harley  has  been  zealously  advertising  the  great 
scheme  which  is  to  make  England  the  richest  country  in 
the  world,  and  his  partisans  are  loud  in  their  praises  of 
his  South  Sea  Scheme.  Its  origin  and  progress  are  too 
well  known  to  need  any  recapitulation,  and  "  the  idea 
that  is  worthy  of  Sully  or  Colbert"  is  gradually  working 
itself  into  favor  among  merchants  and  traders,  nobility 
and  gentry.  Philip,  who  is  now  of  age,  and  in  Parlia 
ment,  enthusiastically  favors  it,  and  fails  to  see  the 
ruinous  future  which  lurks  within  it.  "  John  Law !  Rue 
Quincampoix!  actions  and  shares,"  entirely  supersede 
the  ordinary  scandal  and  topics  of  the  day.  The  Scotch 
adventurer  is  all  powerful  in  Paris,  and  when  he  and  my 
Lord  Stair  quarrel,  his  Excellency  is  recalled  and  Sir 
Robert  Sutton  is  installed  in  his  place. 

As  soon  as  the  scheme  bill  has  received  the  royal 
assent,  subscriptions  are  opened,  and  they  are  taken  with 
such  avidity  that  another  and  another  follow  in  quick 
succession.  In  a  short  time  stocks  rise  from  130  to 
1000,  and  this  wonderful  success  produces  fifty  other 
schemes,  many  of  them  of  the  most  absurd  nature.  The 
Prince  is  head  of  "  The  Welsh  Copper-Mining  Com 
pany,"  and  in  two  days  he  gains  forty  thousand  pounds, 
then  wisely  withdraws  and  thus  escapes  the  subsequent 
consequences. 


262  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Change  Alley  begins  to  rival  the  Rue  Quincampoix. 
Here  alone  do  Whigs  and  Tories,  churchmen  and  dis 
senters  mingle  in  amicable  agreement  to  effect  transfers, 
or  open  new  subscriptions.  London's  noblest  dames  go 
masked  and  hooded  to  the  alley  to  buy  and  sell,  like  any 
broker.  Behold  a  few  schemes  selected  at  random  from 
a  crowd  of  similar  absurdities : — 

"For  importing  a  number  of  large  jackasses  from 
Spain." 

"  For  a  wheel,  for  perpetual  motion." 

"  For  an  undertaking  which  shall  be  revealed  in  due 
time." 

London  is  crazy.  Let  us  mingle  with  the  mad 
crowd  which  roars  and  surges  in  the  alley.  Here  is  a 
man  with  his  hands,  pockets,  and  hat  full  of  papers, 
yelling  in  shrill,  cracked  accents  the  peculiar  merits  of 
his  scheme,  while  a  near  rival  vaunts  his  above  all  the 
others,  and  glances  around  in  search  of  buyers  ;  and  all 
are  either  buying  or  selling  with  the  lust  of  greed  flush 
ing  their  faces,  or  making  their  hands  tremble.  There  is 
a  beautiful  woman  whose  mask  has  fallen  off,  and  whose 
hair  is  rumpled  and  disordered.  She  is  bargaining  with 
a  vulgar  wretch  for  some  rising  shares.  Her  name  is 
Lady  Winifred  Rabic,  and  she  is  endeavoring  to  gain 
enough  to  sustain  her  in  her  extravagant  rnanner  of 
living.  Yonder  is  Dr.  Radcliffe,  who  h'as  already  lost 
£5000  ;  he  is  busy  calculating  the  odds  on  a  new  scheme 
which  has  just  been  offered  to  him.  The  Duke  of 
Chandos  is  also  engaged  in  the  same  occupation.  "Way 
for  the  Earl  of  Westmoreland!"  and  his  lordship  takes 
his  accustomed  place  as  buyer  or  seller.  The  king's 
favorite,  Bernstoff,  glides  in  and  around  the  fevered 
speculators,  and  warily  watches  his  chances.  Now  we 
can  distinguish  Philip's  fair  curls  and  handsome  face. 
He  is  conversing  with  an  aged  cavalier,  whose  peruke 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  263 

tells  of  other  days.  He  is  tall,  and  not  ill-favored,  but 
his  neck  is  too  low  between  his  shoulders,  his  countenance 
is  furrowed  and  haggard  with  his  long  career  of  intrigues 
and  cares ;  it  is  the  crafty  Mr.  Craggs.  He  is  persuad 
ing  Philip  to  invest  in  a  few  hundred  of  his  shares  at 
five  thousand,  to  which  he  finally  agrees,  and  the  transfer 
is  made.  Philip  pockets  the  slips,  and  Craggs  chuckles 
over  his  gains.  At  this  moment  Philip  is  joined  by 
Peterborough,  and  simultaneously  he  is  accosted  by  a 
masked  cavalier  who  offers  to  sell  him  five  hundred 
shares  of  a  company,  which  at  present  ranks  high  in  the 
Alley,  for  a  hundred  guineas  the  share.  Philip,  who  is 
sure  that  he  can  dispose  of  them  at  any  time  for  one 
hundred  and  fifty,  closes  with  the  offer,  and  the  stranger 
exchanges  the  shares  for  a  draft  for  the  amount.  Peter 
borough  tries  to  dissuade  Philip  from  buying,  and 
Philip  laughs  at  his  ignorance  of  their  value,  and  calls 
out  to  the  Earl  of  Westmoreland :  "  My  lord,  will  you 
take  five  hundred  '  Arabian' at  one  fifty?"  "No,  your 
grace,  nor  at  a  shilling  apiece  I  'Arabian'  is  sunk — presi 
dent  absconded,  and  treasurer  invisible."  At  this 
startling  news  Philip  at  once  vindicates  his  powers  as 
President  of  the  Hellfire  Club,  and  tears  the  worthless 
scrip  to  pieces.  His  first  thought  is  to  send  a  messenger 
to  stop  the  payment  of  the  draft,  but  it  is  too  late  for 
that  now,  for  the  man  who  has  shrewdness  enough  to 
make  such  a  coup  d'etat  would  certainly  cash  the  draft  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"Peterborough,"  says  Philip,  with  a  grimace,  "that 
makes  about  fifty  thousand*  I  have  frittered  away  in  this 
foolery  1" 

The  Earl  replies :  "  I  suspected  the  fellow,  but  I  had 
not  the  slightest  idea  that  Arabian  was  totally  worthless." 

"  This   collapse  is   the  beginning  of  the  end,  Peter- 

*  Fact. 


264  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST    ENEMY J 

borough.  During  the  last  few  days,  I  have  thought  what 
an  unstable  foundation  all  of  these  schemes  rest  on,  and 
I  fear  Change  Alley  will  be  many  a  man's  ruin,  as  it 
would  be  mine  if  I  kept  at  it  much  longer." 

The  Earl  says,  musingly :  "  Your  grace,  it  strikes  me 
that  the  fellow  who  sold  you  the  'Arabian,'  is  the  same 
who  was  once  implicated  in  a  Jacobite  plot  which  nearly 
cost  him  his  life !  If  I  were  not  sure  that  Sir  Edgely 
Warely  is  in  Rome,  I  would  swear — " 

"  Edgely  Warely,"  interrupts  Philip,  in  an  excited 
manner.  "  Ay,  now  I  recall  his  voice  and  his  figure,  I 
am  sure  it  is  he — the  treacherous  villain  1" 

The  Earl  is  a  little  surprised  at  his  emotion,  but  he 
does  not  ask  any  questions,  and  they  stroll  off  together. 


CHAPTEE  XXXVIII. 

They  reel  and  stagger  to  and  fro, 

At  their  wit's  end,  like  drunken  men. 

SWIFT. 

"  The  swan-feathers  the  arrow  bore 
With  his  heart's -blood  they  were  wet." 

THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  CHEVIOT. 

PARIS  and  the  Hue  Quincampoix  have  repeated  them 
selves  in  London  and  Change  Alley.  Crash  after  crash 
of  the  various  companies  has  ruined  thousands  who 
foolishly  invested  their  whole  wealth  in  the  delusory 
hope  of  a  hundred-fold  return.  All  London  and  the  ad 
jacent  towns  are  in  a  ferment.  The  train-bands  can 
scarcely  keep  order  or  prevent  many  riots  and  disturb 
ances.  Parliament  has  met  in  alarm,  and  the  members 
are  frightened  at  the  aspect  of  affairs  which  greets  them. 
The  Commons  present  a  curious,  but  dreadful  scene: 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF  WHARTON'S   CAREER.          265 

Whigs  and  Tories  change  places,  while  the  watchful 
Jacobites  note  the  embarrassed  state  of  affairs  with  open 
delight,  and  add  all  in  their  power  to  the  general  con 
fusion,  hoping  to  take  advantage  of  the  occasion  to 
improve  their  plans. 

In  his  opening  speech  his  majesty  laments  the  sad 
state  of  affairs,  and  presses  on  Parliament  the  necessity 
of  finding  a  remedy.  His  speech  is  received  in  the 
House  of  Lords  in  deep  silence — the  presage  of  the 
storm;  but  in  the  Commons  a  member,  who  has  lost 
very  heavily,  rises  and  with  excited  gestures  and  white 
lips  reviles  the  South  Sea  Directors  in  the  most  violent 
terms,  and  calls  them :  "  Miscreants !  scum  of  the  people  1 
and  enemies  to  the  country  1" 

In  the  Upper  House  Lord  Mdlesworth  says :  "  My 
lords,  I  admit  that  the  directors  cannot  be  reached  by 
any  known  laws,  but  extraordinary  crimes  call  for  ex 
traordinary  remedies.  The  Roman  lawgivers  had  not 
foreseen  the  possible  existence  of  a  parricide,  but  as  soon 
as  the  first  monster  appeared,  he  was  sewn  in  a  sack  and 
cast  headlong  into  the  Tiber :  and  as  I  think  the  directors 
of  the  South  Sea  scheme  to  be  the  parricides  of  their 
country,  I  should  willingly  see  them  undergo  the  same 
punishment."  Not  a  dissentient  voice  is  heard  until 
Walpole  replies  with  his  usual  calmness  and  suavity, 
"  If  the  city  of  London  were  on  fire,  wise  men  would  be 
for  extinguishing  the  flames  before  they  inquired  after 
the  incendiaries." 

A  bill  is  brought  forward  to  "  punish  the  authors  of 
our  present  misfortunes,"  and  it  is  carried  nemine  dissen- 
tiente,  for  those  who  have  been  guilty  do  not  dare  to 
oppose  it  for  fear  of  being  found  out,  and  the  innocent 
for  fear  they  may  be  suspected.  After  a  short  recess  for 
Christmas  festivities!  Parliament  reassembles  angrier 
than  before,  and  with  a  determination  to  be  avenged  on  the 
23 


266  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

company  which  has  issued  over  half  a  million  fictitious 
stock  to  bribe  their  king  and  his  mistresses — her  grace 
of  Kendal  and  Madame  de  Platen. 

General  Ross  states,  with  angry  mouthings :  "  We  have 
discovered  a  train  of  the  deepest  villany  and  fraud  that 
Hell  ever  contrived  to  ruin  a  nation ;"  and  at  the  con 
clusion  of  his  speech,  four  of  the  directors  — members — . 
are  expelled  the  House  and  taken  into  custody. 

In  the  Lords  the  excitement  is  intense :  John  Blunt,  a 
sturdy,  independent  man,  is  interrogated,  but  he  refuses 
to  answer  any  questions  put  to  him  relative  to  the  South 
Sea  Directors.  This  occasions  a  debate  which  soon 
branches  into  more  general  topics,  and  scurrilous  person 
alities  take  the  place  of  cool  discussion.  Philip,  who  has 
hitherto  been  restrained  by  Peterborough  from  taking  an 
active  part  in  the  discussion,  now  rises  and  claims  his 
right  to  the  floor.  The  assembled  peers,  who  have  long 
expected  a  speech  from  him,  now  subside  into  temporary 
quietness,  and  await  his  views  in  anxious  silence — all  ex 
cept  a  few  vehement  Whigs  who  heartily  hate  him  for  his 
renegade  conduct.  His  speech  ranges  over  the  whole 
administration,  and  he  adverts  to  the  dissension  in  the 
royal  family,  and  more  than  hints  that  "'Stanhope  has  done 
his  best  to  feed  the  flames  of  so  unnatural  a  fire."  He 
cries  in  trumpet  tones :  "  Look  to  his  parallel  in  Sejanus : 
that  evil  and  too  powerful  minister  who  made  a  division 
in  the  Imperial  family,  and  rendered  the  reign  of  Tibe 
rius  hateful  to  the  Romans  i"  As  he  sits  down  a  mur 
mur  undulates  through  the  House  like  the  wind  in 
autumn  branches,  and  a  crowd  of  hungry  eyes  turn  to 
Stanhope  for  his  answer  to  this  bold  Philippic. 

From  the  time  Philip  mentioned  the  dissension,  Stan 
hope  has  been  on  his  feet,  his  lips  tightly  closed  and  his 
hands  clutched  so  strongly  on  his  breast  that  he  has 
torn  his  lace  cravat  in  two.  He  draws  a  long,  broken 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON's   CAREER.          267 

breath,  and  turns  yellow  with  passion  and  hatred  as  he 
looks  directly  at  his  accuser.  In  his  reply  he  ably  vindi 
cates  his  own  conduct,  and  justifies  every  act  of  the  admin 
istration.  He  extends  a  trembling  hand  towards  Philip, 
and  exclaims,  in  an  ominously  calm  voice :  "  Such  virtu 
ous  sentiments  and  patriotic  thoughts  sound  most 
strange  coming  from  the  lips  of  the  president  of  the  Hell- 
fire  club,  whose  godless  schemes,  wild  excesses,  and  sus 
picious  political  tendencies  are  the  scandal  of  England ; 
and  now,  most  noble  duke,  allow  me  to  compliment  you 
highly  on  your  studies  in  Roman  history,  and  I  hope 
that  you  have  not  overlooked  the  example  of  the  patriot 
Brutus,  who,  in  order  to  assert  the  liberty  of  Rome,  and 
free  it  from  tyrants,  sacrificed  his  own  degenerate  and 
worthless  son!  Moreover — ah!"  His  utterance  be 
comes  choked,  his  face  turns  to  an  unearthly  livid  color, 
and  his  eyes  close  with  spasmodic  twitchings.  He  sways 
to  and  fro  like  one  drunk,  and  his  eyes  open  and  he  sur 
veys  the  house  with  a  vacant  gaze.  My  Lord  Town- 
shend  rushes  to  his  support,  and  grasps  him  by  the 
shoulders.  Stanhope  slowly  turns  his  face  to  him,  and 
opens  his  lips  as  if  to  speak;  he  cannot!  A  thin 
black  stream  trickles  through  his  lips,  and  runs  slowly 
down  his  gown,  and  falls  softly,  splashing  on  the  floor. 
A  cry  of  horror  bursts  from  all,  and  he  is  immediately 
assisted  outside.  While  being  carried  out,  the  dying 
man  throws  a  revengeful  glance  at  Philip  and  his  friend. 
Philip  and  Peterborough  converse  about  the  terrible 
incident  in  the  house,  and  Philip  regrets  his  attack  on 
the  Secretary  of  State,  an  attack  which  produced  such 
dreadful  effects,  and  he  says  :  "  If  I  had  thought  Stan 
hope  was  so  vastly  sensitive  to  a  little  bluster,  I  would 
not  have  pricked  him  so  smartly.  I  trust  he  will  soon 
recover — he  looked  mighty  unwell  when  he  was  carried 
out." 


268  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

The  Earl  replies:  "I 'faith!  I  think  he  gave  you  as 
good  as  you  sent,  and  he  gave  me  a  dig  as  well — small 
thanks  to  him  for  it.  But  I  forgive  him,  '  he  knew  not 
what  he  did ;'  but  if  he  had  not  been  taken  ill,  Mordanto 
would  have  buckled  on  his  armor." 

Philip  says :  "  Yes,  'tis  a  pity  you  did  not  get  a  few 
words  in :  it  would  have  made  additional  amusement." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Bel. — I  do  beseech  you,  sir, 

Since  you  are  like  to  see  the  king  before  rae, 
Commend  the  paper  to  his  gracious  hand. 

"ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL." 

WE  must  retrace  our  steps  to  the  cathedral  at  Dublin, 
in  order  to  discover  where  Alberoni's  message  disap 
peared  so  mysteriously.  The  case  is  very  simple.  As 
soon  as  Philip  and  Mistress  O'Beirne  left,  Edgely  Yal- 
entin  darted  out  from  behind  the  altar,  where  he  had 
been  concealed,  and  shook  a  paper  or  letter  in  the  air 
with  frenzied  gestures.  He  then  exclaimed :  "  At  last  I 
have  an  opportunity  to  fulfil  my  vow  I"  This  letter  was 
Alberoni's  message,  of  which  he  had  unseen  taken  pos 
session.  His  face  was  pale  but  triumphant,  and  he  read 
the  contents  of  his  stolen  prize  repeatedly. 

"  Ah  ha !  Mistress  O'Beirne,  this  pays  me  for  dogging! 
I  thought  your  errand  was  to  him.  Thanks  to  his  care 
lessness,  his  life  is  now,  to  a  certain  extent,  in  my  power : 
London  is  in  no  mood  to  trifle  with  traitors,  and  to 
London  I  must  go  and  await  a  fitting  opportunity  to 
present  this  document  to  their  high  mightinesses  in  the 
Lords."  And  he  took  off  his  left  shoe,  and  ripped  the 
leather  lining  from  the  side,  enough  to  allow  the  letter  to 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          269 

slip  between  it  and  the  outer  surface.  That  accomplished, 
he  drew  it  on  again,  and  walked  rapidly  to  the  banks  of 
the  Liffey,  where  a  fishing-smack — whose  owner  combined 
fishing  and  smuggling  in  a  very  profitable  manner — was 
to  sail  for  London  in  a  few  hours. 

In  a  vile  den  in  "Wapping  is  a  rag  and  junk-shop,  kept 
by  an  old  woman  who  is  a  sister  of  the  notorious  Dame 
Brett. 

"  When  Wharton  's  just,  and  learns  to  pay  his  debts, 
And  reputation  dwells  at  Mother  Brett's  :" 

She  is  known  to  all  the  foot-pads  and  cut-purses  of 
London  as  Dame  Grab-all,  for  she  willingly  purchases 
everything  that  is  brought  to  her,  from  a  diamond  set  of 
the  first  water  down  to  the  dirtiest  rope's  end.  On  the 
second  floor  of  this  house  and  in  the  front  room  is 
Edgely  Valentin.  He  is  standing  by  a  grimy,  latticed 
apology  for  a  window,  and  he  taps  abstractedly  on  the 
mouldy  walls,  whose  plastering  drops  off  in  a  little  cloud 
at  every  touch  of  his  knuckles.  On  the  sole  piece  of 
furniture  in  the  room,  a  bed,  lies  a  woman,  whose  face  is 
drawn  and  wan ;  and  she  has  great  hollows  under  her 
glistening  eyes  and  in  her  flushed  cheeks — hollows  which 
tell  of  fast-running  sands.  She  must  have  been  a  lovely 
girl  once,  for  in  spite  of  the  ravages  of  time  and  sorrow, 
her  features  are  still  prepossessing  and  delicate :  her  hair 
is  very  thick  and  long,  and  it  lies  in  a  tangled  mass  on 
the  whitey-brown  pillow. 

He  turns  to  her,  and  says  in  a  kindly  manner :  "  Have 
you  heard  how  Lord  Stanhope  came  by  his  death?" 

"  Yes  1"  she  replies  in  a  hesitating  voice. 

He  says :  "  He  befriended  me  once,  and  saved  me 
from  being  set  on  by  a  crowd  of  springalds  who  thought 
fit  to  taunt  me  with  my  birth — a  birth  which  it  strikes 
me  is  very  generally  known  in  town !"  and  he  clenches 
his  teeth  till  his  jaw-bones  harden  his  features. 

23* 


270  -HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

The  woman  replies,  in  pained  accents  :  "  Edgely,  drop 
that  subject,  I  entreat  you — it  is  worn  threadbare  be 
tween  us." 

He  does  not  answer  her,  but  resumes  his  tapping 
at  the  wall.  She  casts  a  stealthy  glance  at  him,  and 
draws  from  her  bosom  a  tiny  miniature  portrait,  and 
exclaims  in  low  tones:  "God!  that  he  might  know  all! 
But  my  promise — I  cannot — will  not  break  it — yet  awhile 
at  least ;"  and  she  secretes  it,  .and  sighs  deeply. 

He  suddenly  exclaims :  "  I  will  go  te  the  Tower !  A 
large  meeting  of  people  will  collect  there  to-day,  to  mob 
Parliament  and  hoot  the  Houses  for  their  leniency  to 
ward  the  Directors — a  worthy  set  of  gentlemen,  and  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning — "  A  rumbling  sound  like 
distant  thunder  is  heard,  and  he  continues :  "  St.  Jago ! 
there  they  are !  good-bye  !  I  '11  return  shortly." 

Valentin  mixes  with  the  crowd  of  'prentices,  traders, 
butchers,  and  watermen  who  are  yelling  and  roaring  in 
angry  confusion,  and  he  helps  them  in  their  outcries. 
"  Hang  them !  hang  the  cannibals  !"  "  On  to  Parliament, 
and  we  '11  see  to  matters  ourselves."  The  mention  of  any 
name  known  in  connection  with  the  South  Sea  scheme  is 
greeted  with  curses  and  execrations.  "  Stanhope"  seems 
to  be  the  rallying  cry.  Valentin  clambers  on  top  of  a 
huge  hogshead  that  is  close  by,  and  cries  in  a  voice 
which  rises  above  the  tumult :  "  Friends — fellow-victims ! 
jet  us  demand  justice  now — at  once.  On  to  Parliament ! 
we  will  let  them  know  that  we  are  men.  On,  on  to  Par. 
liament !" 

"  Ay,  lad !  on  to  t'Lords,  and  make  'em  return  us  the 
money  they  Ve  robbed  us  on !"  exclaims  a  tall,  grimy 
smith  who  flourishes  a  gigantic  hammer  as  though  it 
were  a  cane ;  the  mob  echo  his  sentiments,  and  Valentin 
leaps  to  the  ground  and  places  himself  at  their  head. 

As  they  come  in  sight  of  the  object  of  their  ill-will, 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  271 

they  salute  it  with  a  perfect  shower  of  yells  and  groans. 
Valentin  thrusts  his  hands  into  his  breast,  apparently  to 
search  for  something,  and  assured  of  its  safety,  he  care 
fully  rebuttons  his  coat,  and  his  eyes  blaze  with  a  baleful 
expression. 

The  Houses  are  in  session.  Harley's  "master-piece" 
is  still  under  discussion,  and  penalties  and  impi'ison- 
ments  are  still  the  rule  rather  than  the  exception.  The 
king  has  been  spoken  of  in  terms  far  from  flattering; 
and  it  shows  the  general  exasperation  and  angry  feelings 
which  reign  in  the  house,  that,  when  his  majesty  asked 
them  for  a  large  subsidy  to  Sweden  for  the  trade  in  naval 
stores,  Lord  Molesworth  protested  strongly  against  the 
measure,  and  finished  by  saying :  "  I  own  hemp  is  a  very 
necessary  commodity,  especially  at  this  juncture,  but  in 
my  opinion  we  can  be  supplied  more  cheaply  from  our 
plantations  in  America." 

Philip,  whose  renegade  conduct  and  determined  oppo 
sition  to  the  government  and  all  the  schemes  of  the  min 
istry  have  incurred  the  ill-will  of  both  his  majesty  and 
those  in  power,  is  attacked  by  a  special  proclamation 
issued  against  the  Hell-fire  Club  and  its  president.  The 
subject  is  now  being  debated.  Chesterfield's  son— Lord 
Stanhope — is  speaking  in  grave,  earnest  tones :  "  This 
club,  which  his  majesty  so  justly  rails  against,  is  a  dis 
grace  to  our  city.  Its  members  are,  with  scarcely  an 
exception,  notorious  for  their  blasphemy,  riotous  living, 
and  violent  conduct.  It  is  said — God  forfend  that  it  is 
true ! — that  many  of  our  worthiest  families  have  sons 
who  do  not  scruple  to  avow  themselves  aiders  and  abettors 
of  this  most  scandalous  and  godless  organization.  If  it 
is  true,  then  will  we  do  a  good  deed  if  we  can  destroy  it, 
and  pull  from  the  fire  the  burning  brands !"  and  after  a 
few  more  observations  on  religion  and  morality,  he  takes 
his  seat. 


2T2  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Philip  rises  amid  an  ominous  silence  to  answer  tbis 
scathing  attack,  while  Peterborough  stands  by  his  side. 
He  casts  his  eyes  slowly  around  the  expectant  assembly, 
and  with  a  sneer  on  his  lips,  he  whispers  to  the  earl.  He 
begins:  "My  lord  has  chosen  to  attack  the  honored 
president  of  a  club,  whose  door  he  is  not  worthy  to 
guard,  and  also  to  reflect  on  his  want  of  godliness,  as 
well  as  all  the  other  members."  Here  he  pauses,  and 
turns  to  Peterborough,  who  hands  him  a  small  Bible  with 
a  great  affectation  of  reverence.  Philip  then  turns  his  lips 
down  in  a  sanctimonious  manner,  as  he  resumes :  "  I  am 
no  patron  of  blasphemy,  as  I  shall  prove  out  of  this  holy 
book,  which  my  saintly  friend" — he  points  to  the  earl — 
"  invariably  carries  with  him  in  order  to  controvert  the 
arguments  of  the  ungodly." 

"  Amen  !"  snuffles  the  earl.  But  Philip's  answer  is  so 
utterly  shameless  and  impious  that  I  dare  not  give  it  to 
you. 

As  he  finishes,  Peterborough  rises,  and  in  reference 
to  a  theological  point  which  Stanhope  has  raised,  replies : 
"  Though  I  am  for  a  Parliamentary  king,  s'life !  I  '11  never 
have  a  Parliamentary  religion." 

Philip  says:  "Mordanto!  you  are  an  honor  to  the  H. 
F.  C.  If  I  were  not  Duke  of  Wharton,  I  would  cer 
tainly  be  Earl  of  Peterborough." 

"  S'life,"  he  replies,  "  but  your  grace  is  unjust ;  the 
exchange  would  be  uneven.  How  ever  could  I  live  with 
your  debts  and  reputation  pulling  on  me  ?  how  would 
you  remedy  that  ?" 

"  Easily  enough,"  Philip  says  with  a  laugh  ;  "  I  would 
throw  my  duchess  and  her  good  qualities  into  the  scale." 

At  this  moment  there  is  a  noise  in  the  hallway  which 
attracts  Peterborough's  attention,  and  he  leaves  his  seat 
to  inquire  into  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 


oa,  PHILIP  DUKE  OP  WHABTON'S  CAREER.       273 


CHAPTER  XL. 

I  am  no  love  for  you,  Margaret ; 
You  are  no  love  for  me. 

BALLAD  OP  "  FAIR  MARGARET'S  MISFORTUNES." 

THE  earl  is  surprised  to  find  a  man  struggling  with 
the  doorkeeper,  and  is  still  more  so  when  he  recognizes 
the  intruder  to  be  Edgely  Valentin;  he  says  to  the 
keeper :  u  What  is  the  matter  ?  What  ails  the  madman  ?" 
But  the  doorkeeper  is  too  busily  engaged  in  attending  to 
the  infuriated  Valentin  to  answer  the  earl,  and  he  merely 
nods.  The  earl,  whose  strength  is  wonderful  for  such  a 
slightly  built  man,  grips  Edgely  by  the  nape  of  his  neck 
and  shakes  him  so  fiercely  that  he  drops  his  hold  on  the 
keeper,  and  endeavors  to  free  himself  from  the  new  as 
sailant.  The  earl  exclaims :  "  What  means  the  insolent 
fellow  ?  What  do  you  want  here  ?  Speak,  or  I  '11  choke 
ye  black  in  the  face." 

"  My  lord,"  he  exclaims,  "  An  infamous  plot — Alberoni 
— wait  till  I  gain  my  breath  I" 

Peterborough  notices  a  paper  in  his  hand,  and  he 
snatches  it  away  from  him  and  then  releases  him. 

"  To  his  grace  of  Northumberland — Alberoni  ? — "  ex 
claims  the  earl,  and  he  crushes  the  letter  into  his  pocket. 

Valentin  sees  his  motion,  and  he  gasps :  "  The  paper — 
my  lord,  if  you — it  must  be  read  before  the  House.  It 
is  part  of  a  treasonous  correspondence  I  have  dis 
covered." 

The  earl  asks  quickly :  "  Ah !  you  say  you  have  more !". 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  and  I  can  produce  them  at  any  time." 

*'  Do  the  others  criminate  the  duke  as  much  as  this  ?" 


2 "74  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

"  No,  my  lord,  but  they  are  from  well-known  Jacobites 
in  Paris,  Rome,  and  Avignon." 

"  Have  you  them  with  you !  quick  I  We  are  beginning 
to  attract  attention." 

"  No,  my  lord  ;  but  I  can  get  them  in  a  few  days  1*' 

"  Speak  low  now — from  whom  are  the  others  ?" 

This  question  perplexes  him,  and  he  hesitates.  The 
earl  looks  sternly  at  him  and  says :  "  Look  ye,  Sir 
Edgely  Warely !  If  you — who  are  such  a  stern  patriot 
— do  not  bring  me  all  the  letters  in  your  possession 
which  can  do  any  harm  to  the  Duke  of  Wharton,  I  '11  see 
that  you  receive  lodgings  in  the  Tower.  Now  you  can 
go !  You  know  that  I  always  perform  what  I  threaten." 

Yalentin's  countenance  assumes  a  frightful  expression, 
and  he  stamps  his  foot  in  a  mad  paroxysm  of  rage  as  he 
comprehends  that  his  plans  are  foiled,  while  Peterborough 
smiles  at  his  impotent  mouthings.  Suddenly  he  rushes 
on  the  earl,  who  is  too  quick  in  his  actions  to  be  caught 
unawares,  and  as  Valentin  grasps  at  his  throat,  Peter 
borough  hurls  him  headlong  out  of  the  doorway 

As  the  earl  takes  his  seat  again  Philip  says :  "  My 
lord,  you  left  me  so  suddenly,  that  I  feel  half  justified  in 
asking  the  reason  of  your  absence  ?"  Peterborough 
replies  in  a  careless  manner:  "I  heard  a  noise  at  the 
door,  and  went  to  investigate  the  cause.  I  found  a 
friend  of  yours  there  who  requested  me  to  give  you  this 
document,  and  to  advise  you  to  be  more  careful  in  future 
where  you  leave  your  letters." 

Philip  opens  the  document,  and  he  is  astounded  to  find 
it  is  Alberoni's  lost  letter.  He  eagerly  requests  a  de 
scription  of  the  person  who  brought  it,  and  asks  Peter 
borough  whether  he  was  suitably  rewarded. 

"  Yes,  I  amply  rewarded  him  for  his  trouble  ;  but  as  to 
describing  him,  I  am  very  bad  at  descriptions.  I  did  not 
especially  observe  him." 


OB,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP  WHAETON'S   CAREER.  275 

Philip  replies :  "  Well,  if  you  have  rewarded  him,  it 
matters  little  who  he  is." 

The  Earl  dryly  replies :  "  Umph !  sure  ?" 

Philip's  answer  is  lost  in  the  terrific  yell  which  shakes 
the  windows,  and  makes  the  Spanish  Armada  tapestry 
tremble  with  the  concussion. 

Philip  thrusts  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  and  runs  to  see 
the  cause  of  the  tumult;  Peterborough  follows,  as  do 
most  of  the  peers.  The  mob  which  collected  at  the 
Tower  has  been  swollen  with  hundreds  more  of  men  and 
lads  who' have  joined  them  along  their  route. 

"  Look !"  exclaims  Philip :  "  There  is  Edgely  Valentin 
at  the  head  of  the  mob !  S'life,  the  fellow  looks  like  a 
modern  fury.  He  is  all  awake  for  mischief." 

"  'Faith,"  says  Peterborough,  "  he  looks  as  if  he  has 
just  escaped  from  a  mad-house  or  the  tender  mercies  of 
the  Mohocks !  and  'faith,  he  must  have  a  spite  against 
you,  Wharton;  he  has  just  favored  you  with  a  particu 
larly  disagreeable  look!" 

Philip  shrugs  his  shoulders  disdainfully,  and  laughs  at 
the  idea  of  such  -a  foe. 

Philip  and  Peterborough  do  not  return  to  their  seats 
after  the  dispersion  of  the  mob  by  the  guard.  They  pro 
ceed  to  the  Rainbow  in  Fleet  Street,  and  there  they 
remain  until  late  in  the  evening,  when  they  adjourn  to  the 
Pope's  Head,  in  the  alley  of  the  same  name.  The  bar  is 
small  and-  clean,  and  the  floor  is  nicely  sanded,  while  the 
walls  and  ceiling  are  hung  with  pewter  mugs  or  black 
jacks.  The  landlord  Jack  Hood  is  a  stout,  florid  man, 
and  he  is  so  good-natured  that  he  was  never  known  to 
be  augry  but  once,  and  that  was  on  an  extraordinary 
occasion ;  and  as  Peterborough,  who  was  present  at  the 
occurrence,  is  telling  the  story  to  Philip,  we  will  listen : 
"  I  '11  tell  you  a^out  it,  Wharton.  Bowen— that  fiery- 
blooded  Irishman — whom  you  have  probably  heard  of  as 


276  HIMSELF  HIS  WORST  ENEMY; 

a  clever,  handsome  actor — was  in  this  very  room  about 
four  years  ago,  and  I  was  talking  to  him  about  Quin  of 
whom  he  was  vastly  jealous  and  hated  like — well,  like 
Congreve  does  the  great  Sarah.*  I  jestingly  told  him 
that  Quin  was  universally  considered  as  his  superior, 
whereat  he  waxed  mighty  wroth  and  sent  for  him.  Quin 
no  sooner  entered  than  Bowen  cursed  him  and  com 
manded  him  to  draw,  at  the  same  time  he  brandished  his 
blade  in  his  face.  At  first  Quin  refused  to 'fight,  but 
Bowen  gave  him  no  alternative ;  so  he  drew,  and — egad  I 
there's  the  mark  on  the  panel  where  Quin's  point  touched 
after  passing  through  t'other 's  midriff!  S'life !  he  played 
prettily !  a  stramazorm,  a  half  whirl  with  a  passado,  and 
the  blade  fleshed  home." 

Philip  passes  his  finger  over  the  cut  in  the  door,  and 
says :  "  Better  Bowen  than  Quin,  for  if  he  had  gone 
where  would  our  Falstaff  have  come  from?  A  sight 
worth  a  year  of  any  man's  life  to  see." 

They  loiter  here  until  Jack  intimates  it  is  closing  time, 
so  they  settle  the  score,  and  each  wends  his  way  home 
ward  with  unsteady  steps  and  bewildered  brains. 

Philip  feels  cynical  and  unwell  as  he  opens  his  eyes 
after  the  night's  debauch,  and  he  calls  for  a  goblet  of 
iced  canary  to  clear  his  muddled  head.  He  glances 
towards  his  escritoire,  and  there  among  various  other 
letters  is  one  from  Holme  Grange.  He  groans  inwardly 
as  he  imagines  its  probable  contents,  and  he  takes  it  up 
and  tears  it  open  in  a  pettish  manner.  It  Is  quite  lengthy, 
and  he  is  fully  ten  minutes  in  learning  its  contents.  This 
done,  he  tosses  it  aside,  and  exclaims  wearily :  "  What  I 
expected !  Fatherly  objurgations,  marital  pleadings — 
and  general  persuasions  and  entreaties — heigh-ho !  a 
ridiculous  waste  of  time  and  paper.  She  disobeyed  my 

•*  Duchess  of  Marlborough. 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  217 

orders — killed  my  son,  curse  Her !  and  she  shall  never — 
what  nonsense  1  Philip,  you  will  certainly  destroy  your 
calm  quietude  by  such  frenzies.  The  only  item  of  inte 
rest  is  the  paragraph  about  Brad  and  Meg ;  the  rest 
reeks  of  Margery  and  her  troubles.  S'life,  as*  if  I  am  in 
fault!"  And  he  thrusts  his  head  down  in  the  pillow, 
and  falls  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

"  His  learning  none  will  call  in  doubt; 

Nor  Pope  would  dare  deny  him  wit." 
*'I  own  he  hates  an  action  base, 

His  virtues  battling  with  his  place." 

SWIFT'S  LIBEL. 

IN  front  of  the  quaint  little  house  known  as  Dan  But 
ton's,  are  two  persons  who  whisper  together  in  low  tones 
and  seem  desirous  of  secrecy.  The  elder  of  the  two  is 
smaller  than  the  average  of  mankind,  and  from  his  thin, 
bony  neck,  down  to  his  diminutive  feet,  his  body  has  a 
curious  resemblance  to  a  large  S.  His  hands  are  small, 
pallid,  and  very  thin ;  but  his  eyes  compensate  for  his 
deformities — they  are  piercing  and  eloquent,  and  they 
seem  to  shine  with  a  mute  appeal  for  sympathy,  blended 
with  the  sarcastic  expression  of  a  defiant,  scornful  wit. 
He  is  well  known  at  Button's  and  Will's  as  a  vastly 
clever  man  and  a  fine  scholar,  but  he  is  not  over-popular 
at  either  place,  for  he  is  too  fond  of  retort  and  repartee. 
His  companion  is  Mr.  Morice,  who  is  dressed  in  a  frock 
suit  of  brown  and  silver  lace ;  he  is  the  son-in-law  of 
Francis  Atterbury,  Bishop  of  Rochester.  As  their  con 
versation  seems  of  some  interest,  we  will  turn  eaves 
droppers  and  listen  to  it  in  spite  of  Pope's  keen  eyes  or 
Mr.  Morice's  steel  hilt. 
24 


278  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Pope  exclaims :  "  All  England  cries  shame  on  my  Lord 
Walpole  for  his  severity  toward  the  best  and  wisest  man 
living  1" 

Mr.  Morice  adds  :  "  The  pigeon-pie  which  I  sent  him 
yesterday  was  opened  by  the  dirty  turnkey  to  see 
whether  or  no  I  had  secreted  a  letter  or  a  ladder  in  it,  in 
order  to  assist  him  to  escape." 

"  Escape  1"  says  Pope  angrily ;  "  Francis  Atterbury 
attempt  to  steal  from  prison  like  a  common  felon? 
Never !  His  soul  is  too  lofty  to  stoop  so  low.  When  he 
leaves  the  tower,  it  will  be  amid  the  huzzas  of  a  million 
tongues  which  will  chant  a  paean  to  his  greatness !  Pah  1 
this  is  the  first  time  that  dead  pigeons  have  been  accused 
of  carrying  messages." 

Mr.  Morice  says :  "  Think  you  that  my  Lords  Orrery 
and  North  will  say  aught  to  criminate  Atterbury  ?" 

"  Criminate,  man !  I  must  misunderstand  you ! 
What  can  they  say  to  criminate  him  ?"  and  he  anxiously 
awaits  an  answer,  but  Mr.  Morice  only  shakes  his  head. 

Pope  resumes :  "  His  grace  of  Norfolk  will  probably 
be  honorably  discharged  ?" 

"  I  doubt  it,  sir,"  he  replies. 

"  Your  reasons,  Mr.  Morice,  for  doubting  his  ac 
quittal!" 

"  I  will  give  them  inside,"  he  replies,  and  they  go  in 
and  take  a  bench  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  bar.  Mr. 
Morice  proceeds :  "  In  addition  to  the  letters  signed 
'  Jones,'  and  '  Illington,'  which  I  fear  me  will  be  proved 
to  be  his,  there  is  this  wretched  '  Harlequin'  affair. 
You  are  aware  that  Mar  sent  Mistress  Atterburj^  — 
before  she  died — a  little  spotted  dog  which  she  named 
Harlequin.  About  a  month  ago,  I  unfortunately  trod  on 
its  foot  and  broke  it,  so  that  I  had  to  send  it  to  Mistress 
Barnes  in  Houndsditch  to  be  cured.  It  seems  that  this 
dog  has  been  mentioned  several  times  in  the  letters.  Mis- 


OE,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  279 

tress  Barnes  was  examined  by  the  council,  and  was  asked 
the  question  :  '  Does  the  dog  Harlequin  which  you  have 
belong  to  the  Bishop  of  Rochester?'  To  which  she  re 
plied  immediately :  "Yes,  it  does.'  Slight  and  ridiculous 
as  this  evidence  may  seem,  it  is  really  a  strong  link  in  the 
chain  of  circumstances  with  which  it  is  connected." 

Pope  listened  in  silence,  and  he  murmurs  the  bishop's 
answer  when  he  was  brought  before  the  council:  "If  I 
tell  you,  ye  will  not  believe ;  and  if  I  ask  you,  ye  will 
not  answer  me  nor  let  me  go !"  And  he  recalls  At- 
terbury's  well-known  hostility  to  the  Hanoverian  suc 
cession,  his  offer  to  head  an  army  in  his  lawn  sleeves,  his 
haughty  and  ambitious  temper,  his  refusal  to  sign  the 
Declaration  of  Abhorrence  of  the  rebellion  of  1715,  and 
his  turbulent  spirit,  and  he  begins  to  fear  that  the  gov 
ernment  may  be  able  to  furnish  strong  proofs  of  treason 
and  disloyalt}r  when  the  bishop  is  put  upon  his  trial. 

Mr.  Morice  says  musingly :  "  They  say  that  seven 
cardinals  presided  by  the  pope's  orders  at  the  birth  of 
Charles  Edward.  This  future  pretender  has  pleased  our 
Jacobites  mightily." 

Pope  replies,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye :  "  Yes,  and 
they  had  a  chance  to  show  their  feelings  in  safety  on 
Lord  Mayor's  day  by  calling :  A  Stuart,  a  Stuart — high, 
church  and  Stuart,  for  the  mayor's  name  is  Stuart; 
rather  a  disagreeable  coincidence,"  and  he  smiles  as  he 
recollects  how  pleased  his  mayorship  had  been  at  the  un 
usual  rejoicings  and  acclamations  which  took  place  on 
his  election. 

"  I  believe  you  are  the  bishop's  solicitor,  Mr.  Morice  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  Sir  Phipps  and  Mr.  Wynne  are  his  coun 
sel." 

"  But  is  it  not  against  the  order  of  the  House  for  a  lord 
to  appear  by  counsel  before  the  other  House  ?" 


280  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

"Yes,  but  he  has  permission  to  appear  either  with 
counsel  or  without,  as  he  pleases!" 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that ;  but  Mistress  Barnes  ?  what 
a  witness  against  a  bishop — Rochester  versus  a  Hounds- 
ditch  quack!" 

"  Bad  enough !  It  is  reported  that  his  protean  Grace 
of  Wharton  intends  to  defend  Atterbury  in  the  Lords. 
Do  you  know  whether  there  is  any  truth  in  the  asser 
tion  ?" 

Pope  replies  scornfully :  "  His  grace  is  constant  only 
to  inconstancy ;  he  is  an  antithesis,  a  consistent  inconsis 
tency.  I  doubt  that  he  will  belie  himself.  If  he  defends 
him  before  the  trial,  during  it  he  will  be  his- opponent. 
But  it  would  be  well  if  Atterbury  could  secure  him ;  he 
is  a  powerful  speaker,  and  he  is  fuller  of  tricks  and 
legal  subterfuges  than  any  man  in  London." 

Suddenly  Pope  pushes  his  companion  to  one  side,  and 
a  smile  of  welcome  lights  his  face  as  he  discerns  a  fami 
liar  form  standing  at  the  bar  in  conversation  with  the 
bar-maid.  The  new-comer's  countenance  wears  an  ex 
pression  of  jollity  and  good  fellowship.  He  is  clothed 
in  a  faded  cinnamon  coat,  whose  huge  lappels  and  pockets 
are  adorned  with  very  coppery  silver-lace,  which  tells  of 
long  service  and  hard  wear.  His  ruffles  are  torn  and 
dirty,  and  his  whole  air  bespeaks  the  Grub  Street  hack 
who  has  seen  better  days. 

Pope  scrambles  quickly  towards  him,  and  exclaims: 
"  John,  John !  this  will  never  do !  idling  at  a  pot-house, 
instead  of  being  at  the  labors  which  are  to  enable  you  to 
scale  Parnassus'  heights !" 

He  replies :  "  Hallo  !  is  it  you,  Mr.  Pope  ?  What  were 
you  saying  ?  Labors — Mount  Parnassus — rubbish  !  I 
earn  as  much  talking  with  pretty  Polly  here,  as  I  do  in 
my  attic,  and  that  is — nothing." 

Pope  remarks :  "  Fudge  I  John,  come  and  have  a  jack 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  281 

of  canary  with  Mr.  Morice  and  myself ;  you  are  ac 
quainted  with  him?" 

He  nods  assent,  and  the  three  sit  down  together. 

The  trial  of  Francis  Atterbury  is  at  present  the  great 
topic  of  conversation  and  discussion  among  all  classes  of 
society,  and  especially  literary  and  theological  circles. 
The  treasonous  correspondence  which  Walpole  inter 
cepted  deeply  embroils  the  bishop,  and  although  the  peo 
ple  in  general  side  with  the  imprisoned  prelate,  it  is  feared 
there  will  be  too  many  proofs  of  guilt  for  him  to  escape 
a  sentence  of  exile — may  be  death. 

"  For  my  part,"  says  Gay,  "  I  concur  with  the  opin 
ion  of  several  learned  gentlemen  who  frequent  my  spare 
chambers,  that  his  lordship's  correspondence  and  conduct 
are  at  least  worthy  of  censure,  if  not  of  more  stringent 
measures." 

At  this,  Pope  presses  his  friend's  foot  and  glances  at 
Mr.  Morice  as  he  remarks :  "  Marry,  Mr.  Gay,  we  will 
take  your  opinion  on  Ma'am'selle  Scuderi  or  Hanover 
scenery,  but  on  this  subject  you  are  in  the  clouds." 

Mr.  Morice  adds :  "  Yes,  give  us  your  opinion  on 
Scoderi's  Grand  Cyrus ;  you  have  read  it,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  have,  sir,"  says  Gay,  "and  I  can  assure  ye  that  she 
is  another  Sappho — the  most  proper  tenth  muse  that  has, 
as  yet,  illumined  the  literary  horizon!" 

Pope  replies,  with  a  perceptible  curl  on  his  lip : 
"  Bravo !  John !  One  would  think  you  had  been  to  the 
Hotel  Rambouillet  and  been  patted  on  the  back  by  that 
Olympian  novelist." 

"  No,  Mr.  Pope,"  says  Gay ;  "  should  any  one  pat  me, 
the  act  signifies  a — "  And  he  stops  in  confusion. 

Pope  maliciously  adds :  "  A  superiority  in  the  patter, 
and  you,  John,  are  at  least  equal  to  the  tenth  muse." 

Gay  reddens,  and  Mr.  Morice  says :  "  To  change  the 
conversation,  Mr.  Gay,  what  is  your  opinion  of  this 

24* 


282  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Erasmus  Lewis  who  is  engaged  to  prove  the  handwriting 
of  the  bishop.  Is  he  a  man  of  good  character,  and 
honest?" 

"  Too  much  so  for  the  bishop's  good,  I  fear,"  is  Gay's 
curt  reply,  at  which  Pope  looks  anxious  and  troubled,  for 
Atterbury  is  a  very  demigod  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XLTI. 

*'  Though  small  the  time  thou  hast  to  spare, 
The  church  is  thy  peculiar  care." 

SWIFT. 

PHILIP  is  sauntering  down  Ave  Maria  lane  in  com 
pany  with  a  cavalier  of  commanding  presence  and  dis 
tinguished  bearing,  whose  name  is  Lord  William  Cowper, 
alias  Will  Bigamy,  alias  Cowper-law :  the  first  pseudo 
nym  he  has  acquired  from  an  absurd  story  set  afoot  by 
Yoltaire ;  the  other  was  given  him  by  his  political  oppo 
nents  for  his  impartiality  and  severity  in  awarding 
punishment  to  malefactors  and  criminals.  They  intend 
to  pay  a  visit  to  Dolly's,  in  Paternoster  row,  a  tavern 
famed  for  its  juicy  steaks  and  gill-ale. 

As  they  enter  Paternoster  row  Philip  chants,  in  a 
doleful  voice,  "  Sancta  Maria,  ora  pro  nobis,"  and  casts 
a  glance  at  his  companion  as  he  finishes ;  and  Cowper 
exclaims :  "  Your  grace  seems  affected  by  the  associa 
tions  of  the  row." 

Philip  replies :  "  Yes,  my  lord ;  it  reminds  me  of  Avig 
non  and  the  holy  fathers." 

"  Tut-tut,"  says  Cowper ;  "  drop  the  subject,  your 
grace.  It  ill  becomes  me  to  listen  to  aught  pertaining 
to  papistry." 

Philip  promises  not  to  offend  again,  and  they  enter 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  283 

Dolly's  tavern,  which  has  a  portrait  of  Queen  Anne  as 
its  sign. 

"  Prithee,  Master  Dolly,"  says  Cowper,  "  let  us  have  a 
pipe  of  sot  weed  apiece  and  a  jug  of  claret ;"  an  order 
which  is  promptly  filled,  and  they  are  soon  involved  in  a 
cloud  of  the  soothing  and  enervating  Oronooko,  which 
rises  in  blue  wreaths  to  the  raftered  ceiling.  Philip  is  a 
good  smoker,  and  he  ejects  the  smoke  from  his  nose  mar 
vellously  well,  and  he  can  send  it  expertly  from  his 
mouth  either  in  balls  or  circles ;  but  Cowper  is  not  so 
dexterous  ;  he  contents  himself  with  simply  inhaling  it 
and  puffing  it  out  again. 

Philip  sententiously  observes:  "A  blessing  on  Sir 
Walter !  King  James'  fulmination  and  his  counterblasts 
did  little  good,  thanks  to  the  power  of  common  sense." 

"  Ay,  and  a  most  proper  and  good  measure  it  was ; 
but  unfortunately  his  fulmination  is  now  more  honored 
in  the  breach  than  the  observance.  By  the  way,  the 
trial  will  soon  take  place." 

Philip  answers  quickly :  "  And  then  we  will  see  whether 
Parliament  dare  deprive  a  minister  of  God.  S'blood,the 
sacrilege !" 

Cowper  gravely  remarks:  "I  agree  with  you,  and 
rejoice  to  hear  you  are  against  that  most  unjust  mea 
sure." 

Philip  replies  in  a  settled  manner :  "  My  Lord  Atter- 
bury  may  count  on  me  as  his  friend  and  defender." 

Cowper  is  about  to  reply,  when  Philip  is  startled  by  a 
tap  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  turns  his  head  and  sees  be 
hind  him  a  stalwart,  morose-looking  man,  whose  black 
hair  and  eyes  and  brown  skin  show  conclusively  that  he 
is  a  gypsy. 

"  S'blood,  what  do  you  mean  by  laying  thy  filthy  fin 
ger  on  a  gentleman,  eh  I  What  do  you  want?"  cries 
Philip  fiercely. 


284  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

The  gypsy  answers,  in  a  humble  manner,  "  Your 
grace,  my  master,  I  am  Nanar  the  son  of  Ma-Krillac. 
Queenie  gave  me  this  for  you ;  I  want  an  answer."  And 
he  hands  Philip  a  dirty  letter  sealed  with  black  wax. 

Philip  tears  it  open  and  reads  it,  and  a  smile  comes  to 
his  face  as  he  finishes  its  perusal.  He  turns  to  Nanar, 
and  says  in  a  milder  manner :  "  Oh !  Nanar,  I  recall  the 
circumstance.  One  moment,  and  I  will  write  you  a  draft 
for  the  money."  And  he  borrows  a  quill  and  a  sheet  of 
paper  from  Dolly,  and  writes  as  follows  :— 

"  Pay  to  the  order  of  Mistress  Nelly  Valentin  the  sum 
of  one  thousand  guineas  (1000)  for  value  received. 

PHILIP  WHAKTON." 

A  grim  smile  crosses  his  face  as  he  gives  the  draft  to 
Nanar,  and  says  :  "  Here,  and  never  trouble  me  again." 
Nanar  takes  it  and  leaves  the  tavern,  and  Philip  says 
explanatorily :  "  A  promise  to  a  woman  which  I  forgot 
to  fulfil." 

Cowper  shrugs  his  shoulders,  as  he  remarks :  "  Whar- 
ton,  you  are  a  sad  rake.  I  fear  you  will  have  many  of 
those  drafts  to  write  out  before  you  die,  if  you  are  not 
more  circumspect." 

Philip  replies :  "  You  are  wrong,  my  lord.  This  is  one 
of  the  punishments  that  descend  from  father  to  son." 

Cowper  nods  his  head,  and  says:  "Your  grace  is  jus 
tified,  and  now  let  us  have  a  turn  at  ombre." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  answers  Philip,  and  they  draw 
their  chairs  closer  around  the  table. 

We  will  leave  them  for  a  while,  and  turn  to  Nanar, 
who  is  walking  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  Wapping ;  nor 
does,  he  slacken  his  pace  until  he  arrives  before  Dame 
Graball's  junk-shop,  where  he  walks  in  and  asks  the  woman 
a  question,  to  which  she  nods  affirmatively  and  points 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHAETON'S   CAREER.  285 

her  thumb  toward  the  stairs,  which  he  mounts;  he 
knocks  at  the  first  door  which  he  sees ;  it  is  opened,  and 
he  steps  inside.  As  you  doubtless  guess,  its  inmates  are 
Edgely  Valentin  and  Mistress  Nelly.  Nanar  says,  in  a 
monotonous  voice,  and  as  if  he  is  repeating  a  lesson : 
"  The  gypsy  queen  sends  Nanar  with  a  duke's  recom 
pense  for  Mistress  Nelly  Valentin." 

Valentin  replies  with  an  oath :  "  Gypsy  queen.  You 
lie  !  the  Duke  of  Wharton  sends  it ;  take  it  back  to  him 
and  tell  him  that  the  only  recompense  Edgely  Valentin 
will  receive  is  a  clear  field  and  no  favor  1"  and  he  crushes 
the  draft  into  Nanar's  hand  again,  who  quickly  smooths 
it  out,  and  he  glides  towards  the  bed  where  lies  the 
woman,  and  he  says  to  her :  "  Sweet  lady !  queenie  begs 
you  to  take  this  draft  as  a  payment  for  some  money 
which  you  once  loaned  her,  and  also  to  show  her  that 
you  still  think  as  well  of  her  as  you  did  long  years  ago 
when  she  was  a  wee  child  and  you  spoke  so  kindly  to 
her !" 

She  shivers,  but  says  never  a  word,  and  Nanar  stands 
there  until  Valentin,  no  longer  able  to  restrain  himself, 
takes  hold  of  him  by  the  shoulder  and  pushes  him  out  of 
the  room. 

Nanar  appears  quite  contented  and  unruffled,  and  he 
philosophically  returns  to  Dolly's  with  the  draft  carefully 
held  in  his  hand.  Again  he  taps  Philip  on  the  shoulder, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  lays  the  draft  on  the  table. 

Philip  exclaims  angrily:  "A  pest  on  you,  Nanar! 
"What  do  you  want  now  ?  and  what  do  you  return  the 
money  for  ?" 

He  replies  :  "  Your  grace,  a  fair-faced  gentleman  who 
•was  wi'  the  lady  would  not  let  her  take  it,  and  he  gave  me 
this  message  for  you : — the  only  recompense  Edgely  Val 
entin  will  receive  is  a  clear  field  and  no  favor!" 

Philip  is  astonished  at  the  insolent  message,  and  he 


286  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY J 

glares  angrily  at  the  gypsy,  but  he  makes  no  impression 
on  Nanar's  stolidity  and  calmness ;  finally  he  says  with 
a  curse :  "  Take  it  to  your  queen ;  I  told  her  she  should 
have  it ;  and  now  get  you  gone  ere  I  juggle  your  head 
with  a  claret-decanter!" 

Nanar  carefully  secretes  the  draft  in  a  pocket  of  his 
jerkin,  and  again  bows  himself  out. 

"  Egad !"  says  Cowper,  "  the  fellow  has  a  spirit." 

Philip  answers :  "  He  is  a  low,  nameless  hound !  and 
he  shall  have  his  nose  slit  for  his  insolence  if  he  is  not 
careful.  But,  come,  we  '11  go  down  to  the  House  and  see 
whether  Walpole  and  Mr.  Yonge  are  behaving  them 
selves.  They  are  both  bitter  against  our  friend  Atter- 
bury.  I  wish  Peterborough  was  in  town ;  we  could  rely  on 
him." 

Cowper  says,  "  Mordanto  is  a  wonderful  fellow ;  he  is 
never  quiet,  and  he  has  seen  more  cities,  theatres,  bagnios, 
princes,  and  kings  than  any  man  in  Christendom." 

"  And  fewer  priests  and  church  interiors  than  any  man 
in  heathendom,"  adds  Philip,  an  observation  to  which 
Cowper  replies  regretfully:  "I  fear  that  inattention  to 
church  matters  is  not  peculiar  to  Peterborough  alone, 
your  grace." 

Philip  returns  warmly:  "How  could  it  be  when  a 
Kendal  and  a  Darlington  rule  the  country  through  a 
senseless,  miserly  usurper?" 

Cowper  is  startled  at  his  language,  and  he  exclaims : 
"  Your  grace,  I  must  demand  that  you  speak  in  more 
respectful  terms  of  his  sacred  majesty,  or  else  I  will  have 
to  leave  you.  Consider  that  you  are  talking  treason, 
and  as  long  as  I  suffer  treasonous  language  in  my  pre 
sence  I  am  to  a  certain  extent  a  sharer  in  your  guilt." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  lord ;  I  did  not  mean  what  I  said ; 
but  my  feelings  are  hurt  at  the  recollection  of  the  women 
who  sit  on  either  hand  of  his  majesty,  they  are  so  pecu- 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  287 

liarly  ugly — they  are  a  disgrace  to  us  I"  and  he  laughs 
and  kisses  his  hand  to  Sir  Charles  Hellwell,  who  is 
passing  on  the  opposite  side. 


CHAPTER  XLIH. 

My  soul  no  longer  at  her  lot  repines, 

But  yields  to  what  your  providence  assigns ; 

Though  immature  I  end  my  glorious  days, 

Cut  short  my  conquest,  and  prevent  new  praise  ; 

My  life,  already,  stands  the  noblest  theme. 

LUCAK. 

THE  space  in  front  of  the  Houses  is  thronged  with  an 
anxious  crowd  who  are  all  agape  for  further  news  of  the 
trial ;  the  watermen  are  jubilant  at  their  increased  profits, 
for  since  early  morning  thousands  have  been  ferried  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  and  from  the  various 
suburban  towns  along  its  banks.  Just  at  present  the 
silence  in  the  Lords'  is  intense  and  impressive,  and  its 
members  are  anxiously  awaiting  Walpole's  answer  to  the 
previous  speaker.  Some  look  stern  and  implacable; 
others  appear  ill  at  ease  and  troubled:  Walpole,  the 
accused  Bishop,  and  Philip  alone  seem  calm  and  tranquil. 
Atterbury  is  dignified  and"  unmoved,  and  his  eyes  are 
sharp  and  penetrating,  yet  kindly ;  his  forehead  is  broad 
and  expansive,  and  his  nose  is  well-shaped  but  rather 
coarse:  his  double  chin — which  is  almost  hidden  in  his 
clerical  tie — evinces  his  fondness  for  high  living  and  epi 
curean  dishes,  and  his  wig  is  large  and  curling.  Philip 
holds  in  his  hands  a  mass  of  notes  and  jottings  connected 
with  the  trial,  and  he  reclines  in  his  seat  in  a  careless 
attitude. 

A  whispering  buzz  runs  through  the  chamber,  and 
Walpole  rises.  In  clear,  concise  tones  he  reverts  to  the 


288  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

posthumous  testimony  of  Mr.  Neynoe  which  accuses  him 
of  bribery  in  order  to  make  sure  of  the  Bishop's  crimina 
tion,  a  charge  which  it  is  of  vital  importance  to  his  inter 
ests  to  prove  false.  He  entirely  disavows  all  knowledge  of 
Neynoe,  and  indignantly  repels  the  accusation  of  bribery 
and  corruption.  As  he  sits  down,  Atterbury  rises,  and 
questions  him,  in  a  soft,  modulated  voice,  in  regard  to  a 
few  facts  and  dates  which  have  an  important  bearing  on 
the  case.  All  pay  breathless  attention  to  this  conflict 
between  the  two  great  masters  of  language  and  oratory. 
Atterbury  almost  exhausts  his  powers  of  twisting  and 
turning  sentences  and  words  in  his  endeavors  to  make 
his  wily  enemy  contradict  and  falsify  his  own  assertions ; 
Walpole,  however,  is  cool  and  wary,  and  every  word  he 
utters  is  carefully  weighed  before  it  is  spoken.  They  are 
battling  for  a  great  stake,  and  they  both  know  it  and 
appreciate  to  the  fullest  extent  the  ignominy  of  failure ; 
Walpole  fights  for  power  and  his  reputation — Atterbury 
for  his  acquittal. 

At  last  Atterbury  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  his 
examination  of  his  accuser  is  a  failure,  and  in  order  to 
hide  the  important  end  in  which  he  has  been  foiled,  he 
puts  a  few  trifling  questions  to  him,  which  are  of  no  real 
importance,  and  signifies  that  he  has  finished  with  him  : 
Walpole  sits  down,  with  his  face  as  immobile  as  iron,  but 
the  palm  of  his  right  hand  is  cut  and  scarred  with  the 
hard  pressure  of  his  nails  against  it  while  under  the 
raking  fire  of  the  Bishop's  inquisitorial -examination,  and 
he  thanks  Heaven  that  he  has  passed  through  the  ordeal 
safely.  Atterbury's  design  in  questioning  Walpole  so 
closely  was  to  crush  the  testimony  of  one  witness  and 
injure  the  reputation  of  another,  to  prove  Neynoe  a  per 
jured  liar  and  Walpole  a  corrupt  and  interested  enemy. 

All  his  brother  bishops  have  treated  Atte*bury  with 
great  virulence  and  hatred,  and  they  have  hitherto  shown 
anything  but  a  Christian  spirit  during  the  trial.  Wynne? 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  289 

of  St.  Asaph  especially,  has  been  uncompromising  and 
violent,  and  he  now  rises  and  animadverts  on  his  conduct 
with  such  blind,  acrimonious  hostility  as  to  cause  Philip's 
face  to  smile  in  pity  at  his  warped  judgment.  Unluckily 
for  the  reverend  man  he  has  accused  Atterbury  of  some 
misdemeanors  impossible  to  be  proved — mere  hearsay  in 
fact ;  and  directly  he  has  ended,  before  he  has  time  to 
settle  his  holy  person  comfortably,  Lord  Bathurst  stands 
up ;  with  a  sneer  on  his  flushed  face,  he  extends  his  left 
hand  in  front  of  him,  while  the  other  rests  on  his  sword- 
hilt,  and  he  exclaims  in  angry  tones  against  the  mode  of 
procedure  in  the  trial;  he  denounces  it  as  illegal  and 
without  a  precedent.  He  turns  to  the  Bishop's  bench, 
and  thunders :  "  I  can  hardly  account  for  the  inveterate 
malice  some  persons  bear  the  learned  and  ingenious 
Bishop  of  Rochester,  unless  they  are  possessed  with  the 
infatuation  of  the  wild  Indians,  who  fondly  believe  they 
will  inherit  not  only  the  spoils,  but  even  the  abilities  of 
any  great  enemy  they  kill!"  The  bishops  color  under 
the  sarcasm,  while  a  murmur  of  applause  greets  the 
speaker — and  Atterbury  thanks  his  defender  with  an 
eloquent  glance. 

****** 

Lord  Cowper  is  speaking  in  a  warm,  spirited  strain, 
that  shows  how  deep  is  his  love  and  reverence  for  the 
accused,  his  hatred  and  disgust  at  his  enemies ;  he  winds 
up  by  saying :  "  The  old  champions  of  our  church  used 
to  argue  very  learnedly  that  to  make  or  to  degrade 
bishops  was  not  the  business  of  the  State,  that  there 
Is  a  spiritual  relation  between  the  bishop  and  his  flock, 
derived  from  the  church,  with  which  the  State  has  no 
right  to  interfere ;  what  the  thoughts  of  our  reverend 
prelates  are  upon  these  points  does  not  yet  fully  appear. 
Something  of  their  conduct  intimates  as  if  our  old 
divines  were  mistaken."  Atterbury  looks  mildly  towards 
25 


290  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

the  bishops  as  Cowper  says  this,  as  if  to  ask  them  to 
stand  up  and  vindicate  themselves,  but  none  would  or 
could  meet  his  searching,  questioning  eye ;  they  occupied 
themselves  in  arranging  their  robes  or  looking  another 
way. 

Philip,  who  has  thus  far  taken  no  active  part  in  the 
debate,  now  rises,  coughs  twice  or  thrice,  meanwhile  glanc 
ing  rapidly  through  the  mass  of  papers  crackling  in  his 
hands,  then  drops  them  on  the  floor.  He  is  a  focus  on 
which  all  eyes  centre;  a  hum  of  expectation  buzzes 
through  the  chamber  as  the  assemblage  await  the  opinion 
of  the  talented  scapegrace  on  this  important  case.  Wai- 
pole  coughs,  Philip  looks  toward  him,  and  they  exchange 
a  very  significant  glance,  which  does  not  pass  unnoticed 
by  Atterbury  and  various  others,  particularly  Cowper, 
who  wonders  at  the  cordiality  between  the  two. 

It  is  necessary  to  explain  the  reason  of  this  seeming 
cordiality  between  two  men  who  have  previously  been  at 
total  variance  on  the  question  of  the  trial.  Yesterday, 
while  Philip's  head  was  full  of  wine,  he  had  gone  to  Wai- 
pole,  and  "  regretted  his  wickedness  in  opposing  the  just 
punishment  of  the  bishop,"  and  "  begged  his  lordship  to 
forgive  him,"  with  many  sighs  and  groans  ;  "  if  his  lord 
ship  would  be  so  kind,  so  obliging  as  to  take  him  on  his 
side  in  the  debate,  he  could  conscientiously  promise  to  do 
his  best."  The  young  scamp  seemed  so  earnest  in  his 
behavior  that  Walpole  believed  him  ;  he  joyfully  con 
sented  that  Philip  should  aid  him  in  crushing  the  pre 
late  ;  gave  him  all  the  arguments  pro  and  con,  and  dis 
missed  him  with  his  blessing.  Philip  spent  the  rest  of 
the  night  in  drinking,  and  now — 

Philip's  speech  is  too  long  to  give  in  detail.  However, 
in  the  first  place,  he  attacks  the  testimony  of  several 
witnesses  who  have  "been  examined,  utterly  annihilating 
their  credit  and  trustworthiness  by  exposing  their  dupli- 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  291 

city  and  perjury ;  not  a  fact,  a  word,  or  an  incident  of 
the  whole  trial  has  escaped  him,  his  wonderfully  reten 
tive  memory  making  everything  subservient  to  his  ends. 
In  particular  does  he  dwell  with  withering  sarcasm  on 
the  episode  of  the  dog  Harlequin,  which  is  really  an  im 
portant  witness  for  the  prosecution ;  he  indulges  in  keen 
ludicrous  personalities,  varied  with  thrilling  flashes  of 
forensic  grandeur  which  chill  the  blood,  and  make  the 
heart  still  with  its  fiery  eloquence.  Now  he  is  calmer, 
and  he  sums  up  in  a  methodical,  lawyer-like  manner  the 
evidence  which  has  been  given.  Master  Richard  Lieface 
he  proves  to  be  an  arrant  liar  and  a  perjurer,  much  to 
Walpole's  dismay.  He  exhausts  sacred  and  profane  his 
tory  for  parallel  examples,  cites  all  cases  which  bear  the 
slightest  resemblance  to  the  trial,  deducing  from  all  of 
them  the  wrongfulness  of  the  whole  proceeding  from  the 
first  bill  passed  against  the  accused  down  to  the  present 
moment.  Although  some  of  his  examples  are  far-fetched 
and  strained,  he  gives  them  a  gloss  of  probability,  and 
a  semblance  to  truth  which  is  staggering  to  his  oppo 
nents.  His  voice  is  loud,  sonorous,  and  penetrating,  im 
passioned  and  angry,  cool  and  convincing,  intense  and 
subdued,  whispering  and  sibillating,  while  its  every 
syllable  pours  sharp  and  distinct  into  every  corner  of 
the  room. 

Most  of  his  arguments  are  conclusive  and  impregnable. 
As  he  approaches  the  beginning  of  the  end,  he  winds  up 
facts,  testimony,  incidents,  witnesses,  bishops,  and  lords 
in  one  great  cloud,  whirls  it  around  and  around  with  the 
impetuous  force  and  enthusiasm  of  his  wonderful  genius, 
and  sends  it  crashing  and  striking  amid  the  accusers  of 
his  friend.  For  an  instant  there  is  a  dead  silence ;  then 
from  every  lip  biirsts  a  deafening  cry,  long  and  continu 
ous.  Atterbury's  lips  are  clenched  tightly,  and  his  ejTes 
are  glistening  with  emotion,  while  Bathhurst  and  Cowper 


292  HIMSELF    HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

shake  hands  with  violent  energy.  Meanwhile  Philip  is 
almost  overwhelmed  with  congratulations  and  plaudits ; 
he  is  excited  and  very  pale  ;  he  exclaims  to  Cowper,  in  a 
careless  manner :  "  Egad !  my  lord,  Dolly's  and  a  beef 
steak  would  do  me  good  after  this  last  eruption." 

Astute  and  collected,  Atterbury  rises  before  the  excite 
ment  is  over,  beginning  the  vindication  of  his  conduct. 
After  an  ingenious  though  sophistical  explanation  of  his 
behavior  and  his  motives,  he  concludes  in  the  pathetic 
words  which  strike  a  chord  of  sympathy  in  all  our  hearts, 
even  for  this  arrogant,  unscrupulous  churchman :  "  If 
after  all  it  shall  still  be  thought  by  your  lordships  that 
there  is  any  seeming  strength  in  the  proofs  produced 
against  me,  if  by  private  persuasions  of  my  guilt  founded 
on  unseen,  unknown  motives,  if  for  any  reasons  or  neces 
sity  of  state,  of  which  I  am  no  competent  judge,  your 
lordships  shall  be  induced  to  proceed  on  this  bill — God's 
will  be  done ! — naked  came  I  out  of  my  mother's  womb, 
and  naked  shall  I  return ;  and  whether  He  gives  or  takes 
away,  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord."  He  can  con 
tinue  no  longer,  his  eyes  become  full  almost  to  overflowing, 
while  his  words  grow  broken  and  indistinct. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Oriana. — As  I  live,  Mirabel  turned  friar !  I  hope  in  Heaven 

he's  not  in  earnest. 
Bisaire. — In  earnest ;  ha,  ha,  ha  !  are  you  in  earnest? 

THE  INCONSTANT. 

PHILIP  has  hit  upon  a  new  idea  ;  he  will  turn  journalist 
and  edit  a  second  "  Spectator"  or  "  Tatler,1'  make  himself 
a  popular  man  with  the  honest  cits,  enact  the  part  of  a 
patriot  to  his  country,  and  be  a  friend  to  the  people.  It 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE    OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          293 

requires  but  a  short  time  to  put  this  idea  into  operation 
after  its  birth.  "  The  True  Briton"  shall  be  the  vehicle 
of  his  thoughts  and  opinions.  Let  us  to  Grub  Street, 
where  he  is  at  present  engaged  in  jotting  down  divers 
effusions  of  disguised  Jacobitisms,  startling  political 
views,  discussions  on  the  general  aspect  of  England  and 
her  rulers,  whom  he  handles  with  irreverent  boldness. 
He  is  perched  on  a  high  stool,  before  a  grimy,  blackened 
desk ;  the  room  is  so  narrow  and  confined  that  the  ink 
darted  from  the  quill  prior  to  writing  unavoidably  lights 
on  some  side  of  it  and  leaves  black  splashes  and  spots 
which  have  a  vague  resemblance  to  myriads  of  long-legged, 
bloated  spiders  rather  the  worse  for  wear.  The  single 
window  is  sooty  and  dilapidated ;  the  straggling  rays 
which  manage  to  crawl  through  the  Lilliputian  bull's-eye 
panes,  fall  in  blurred  dimness  on  the  many  blots,  initials? 
and  scratches  on  the  desk,  and  cast  a  sickly  light  on  the 
opposite  wall. 

Philip  has  a  sheet  of  paper  before  him  on  which  he  is 
scribbling  with  amazing  rapidity.  His  face  is  impassive 
and  emotionless.  If  it  were  not  for  the  quick  motion  of 
the  quill  and  the  rustling  of  his  ruffles,  one  might  judge 
him  to  be  in  a  brown  study.  His  dress  is  certainly  out 
of  place  here ;  his  peach-colored  coat  is  of  ribbed  silk, 
heavily  laced  and  broidered  with  gold ;  the  hilt  of  his 
rapier  is  extravagantly  decorated  with  bands  of  diamonds 
and  rubies,  while  a  sapphire  gleams  and  glitters  in  the 
top.  He  has  apparently  finished  his  task,  for  he  throws 
the  quill  down,  exclaiming  exultantly :  "  Another  stinger 
for  the  ministry.  I  '11  rouse  their  ire  before  I  have  done 
with  them.  This  must  to  press  at  once,  then;  from 
John-o'-Groat's  to  Land's  End  shall  they  be  circulated." 
He  rubs  his  hands  together,  while  a  smile  comes  to  his  lips. 
"  Now  that  I  have  descended  to  the  ranks  and  taken 
arms  against  my  order,  faith  I  I  ought  to  complete  the 

25* 


294  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

farce  and  join  some  worshipful  London  company — the 
Rat-catchers  or  the  Wax-chandlers  ?  speak  in  terms  to 
suit  the  mobile  vulgus — not  that  I  love  George  or  Wai- 
pole  less,  but  my  country  more  Ah,  ha !  quite  thea 
trical,  but  it  will  doubtless  pass  for  frenzied  patriotism 
with  my  beloved  brothers,  the  greasy  chandlers.  How 
ever,  whether  they  believe  me  or  not  when  I  announce 
my  new  convictions,  it  will  be  a  new  sensation  to  grasp 
their  democratic  palms  and  call  myself  one  of  them  !" 

He  stuffs  the  MSS.  in  his  pocket,  then  runs  over  to 
John  Incink  to  have  it  put  to  press  as  one  of  the  articles 
in  "  The  True  Briton."  He  now  steps  over  to  Gay's 
lodging-house,  mounts  the  rickety,  old  staircase,  gropes 
his  way  through  the  close,  foul  hallway,  and  opens  the 
door  which  guards  the  spendthrift  poet  from  duns  and 
bailiffs.  As  he  enters  he  exclaims :  "  Good-day,  my 
plague  of  moral  chamberlains.  I  have  just  finished  my 
labors,  and  I  have  dropped  in  to  help  you  if  you  need — " 

"  Thanks,  your  grace,"  Gay  responds  with  mock  gravity ; 
"  but  any  spare  ideas  you  may  possess  you  had  better 
keep  to  yourself,  for  the  work  on  which  I  am  now  en 
gaged  is  to  make  my  reputation  for  life,  or  else  I  '11  turn 
usurer  and  fleece  elder  sons  of  their  future  patrimonies." 

Philip  replies :  "  Ah — what  is  this  great  work  ?  An 
other  version  of  '  Three  Hours  ?'  " 

Gay  reddens  at  the  remark,  for  it  calls  to  mind  how  his 
play  ''  Three  Hours  after  Marriage"  had  been  hissed  off 
the  stage  for  its  immorality  and  indecency.  "  No,  your 
grace,  neither  crooked  Pope  nor  Jolly  Arbuthnot  shall 
have  a  hand  in  this.  It  shall  be  exclusively  my  own  pro 
duction." 

Philip  exclaims :  "  My  dear  man,  do  tell  me  what  it  is, 
then.  You  keep  me  on  the  rack  with  your — " 

Gay  interrupts :  "  One  moment,  and  I  will  get  it.    You 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WIIARTON'S   CAREER.  295 

must  know  that  it  will  not  be  finished  for  some  time — 
may  be  three  or  four  years." 

Philip  adds :  "  Not  until  your  last  fiasco  is  forgotten, 
eh?" 

Gay  laughingly  assents,  meanwhile  drawing  a  roll  of 
stiff,  dirty  paper  from  a  pigeon-hole  in  his  desk,  which  is 
dusty  and  rickety.  Philip  sits  down  on  a  pile  of  worm- 
eaten  folios  which  happen  to  be  convenient,  while  Gay, 
after  a  preliminary  clearing  of  his  throat,  begins  to  read 
the  names  of  the  dramatis  personx  of  his  new  produc 
tion  :  "  Captain  Macheath — a  jolly  dog  by  the  way,  Pea- 
chum,  Lockit,  Mat-o'-the-mint,  Ben  Budge — " 

"  Hold  I  pardon  me  for  interrupting  you,  Gay ;  but 
the  ladies — I  am  more  interested  in  them !" 

Gay  replies :  "  Whichever  you  like — Mistress  Peachum ; 
Polly,  her  daughter,  Dolly  Trull,  Mistress  Vixen — but 
I  '11  not  read  them  all,  you  would  be  too  much  wearied." 

"  What  is  it  ?  a  farce,  a  tragedy,  a  pastoral  ?" 

Gay  answers :  "  If  your  grace  will  attend  to  me  for  a 
few  minutes,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  my  play.  It  came 
about  in  this  way.  Mr.  Swift  and  I  were  at  the  Rainbow 
some  few  days  ago,  and  were  discussing  Tom  Clincher's 
probable  ending,  when  he  suddenly  remarked :  '  Gay,  I 
think  a  Newgate  pastoral  might  make  a  pretty  sort  of  a 
thing  I  Try  your  hand  at  it ;  try  your  hand  at  it,  man.' 
His  suggestion  stuck  in  my  head,  and  egad!  this  is 
the  consequence."  He  points  to  the  roll:  he  pursues  in 
an  excited  manner :  "  However,  it  is  not  as  a  Newgate 
pastoral  that  I  intend  it  to  be  known,  but  rather  as  a 
fling  at  that  most  nonsensical  thing,  the  squawking, 
Italian  opera,  with  which  all  our  fashionables  are  smit 
ten." 

Philip  says :  "  Pelt  them  out  of  the  country  with  your 
own  airs ;  I  am  with  you  in  your  hearty  detestation  of 
those  soft,  unnatural  airs,  fantasias,  and  conceits  which 


296  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

distinguish  the  Italian  school.  I  prefer  our  own  dear 
English  ballads  to  all  their  high-strained  warblings. 
Which  is  your  chief  character  ?" 

Gay  answers  with  an  air  of  perplexity:  "Now 
you  ask  me  a  question  I  cannot  yet  answer.  Captain 
Macheath  disputes  the  palm  with  Nimming  Ned,  Peachum, 
and  Polly — faith !  I  would  like  to  have  them  all  chief 
characters,  if  it  were  not  for  the  violation  of  dramatic 
rule !" 

"  You  have  not  given  me  its  name  yet,  John,  and  this 
is  the  third  time  I  have  asked  you." 

Gay  replies:  "Pardon  me!  I  had  forgotten — 'The 
Beggar's  Opera.' " 

"  Perfect,  perfect !     "Tis  both  original  and  striking." 

Gay's  cheeks  color  at  Philip's  approbation.  He  draws 
his  ragged,  faded  dressing-gown  about  him  with  a  satis 
fied  air. 

Philip  exclaims  abruptly :  "  Good-bye,  John.  Success 
attend  your  labors !"  He  leaves  the  room,  and  leaves 
also  a  well-filled  purse  for  the  needy  poet. 

Since  pardoned  Bolingbroke's  return  to  England,  it 
has  been  his  constant  aim  to  have  the  bill  of  penalties 
formerly  passed  against  him  repealed.  Unfortunate^,  a 
strong  party  are  greatly  averse  to  the  measure,  among 
whom  is  Philip,  who  looks  with  detestation  on  the  double 
renegade,  and  wonders  how  a  man  could  become  so  aban 
doned  and  traitorous !  The  case  comes  on  to-daj7  in  Par 
liament.  Thither  Philip  goes  to  throw  his  voice  with  the 
opposition.  As  he  enters  Lord  Harcourt  the  Trimmer  is 
speaking  of  the  returned  exile  with  feeling  and  pathos,  and 
he  is  defending  his  conduct  with  much  skill.  Philip  rises 
as  he  sits  down,  and  he  strongly  protests  against  the 
measure.  He  imitates  Harcourt's  gestures,  manners,  and 
pathos  so  ludicrously  that  he  keeps  the  house  in  a  con 
tinued  smile.  This  finished,  he  does  not  wait  for  the 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE    OP    WHARTON'S    CAREER.  297 

division,  but  leaves,  satisfied  that  he  has  done  his  duty 
as  a  man  and  a  patriot. 

Strolling  toward  the  Rainbow,  where  he  purposes  to 
spend  the  rest  of  the  day,  he  observes  Edgely  Valentin 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  He  exclaims :  "  A 
plague  on  the  sour-faced  rogue  I  He  is  worse  than  the 
Scot's  dagger — always  in  sight !  If  he  ever  insults  me 
again,  he  shall  certainly  have  his  nose  slit  for  his  pains  I" 


CHAPTER  XLY. 

« 

0  Waly,  Waly,  up  the  bank, 

0  Waly,  Waly,  down  the  brae, 
And  Waly,  Waly,  yon  burn  side, 

Where  I  and  my  love  were  wont  to  gae  ! 

1  lean'd  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

1  thocht  it  was  a  trustie  tree, 

But  first  it  bow'd  and  syne  it  brak— • 
gae  my  true  love  did  licLtlie  me. 

WALT,  WALT. 

MARGERY  is  listlessly  wandering  in  the  darksome  forest, 
carelessly  stepping  through  the  damp  grass  and  the  tan 
gled  underwood ;  her  face  has  a  look  of  tired  weariness 
and  broken  happiness.  Her  movements  are  languid  and 
heavy ;  she  has  lost  her  former  buoyant  gayety  and  spirit, 
lost  the  intense  interest  the  world  once  had  for  her  ;  and 
— God  help  her ! — she  sometimes  thinks  that  the  black, 
icy  tarn  may  be  her  refuge,  where  her  trustful,  loving 
heart  will  be  at  rest.  Philip  has  written  but  one  letter 
to  her  since  the  death  of  her  babe ;  it  was  so  cruel,  so 
harsh,  that  although  she  has  read  it  over  and  over 
until  it  is  nearly  worn  to  pieces,  yet  every  time  she  looks 
at  it,  it  seems  to  wind  a  circlet  of  tightening  steel 
about  her  heart.  She  does  not  cry  when  she  reads  it ; 


298  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

she  never  cries  now;  tears  will  not  come  to  ease  her 
throbbing  head.  All  day  and  all  night  long,  day  after 
day,  week  after  week,  month  after  month,  there  has  been 
no  thought  in  her  mind  but  of  Philip  and  his — cruelty?— 
no,  his  former  love  and  tenderness ;  none  would  dare  to 
mention  his  name  to  her  coupled  wit'h  cruelty.  "  He  will 
come  back  some  day — he  cannot  always  be  away !"  This 
thought  is  the  star  of  hope  which  keeps  her  from  going 
mad.  She  often  lies  on  the  velvet  sofa,  where  she  was 
sleeping  on  that  day  when  he  came  back  and  awakened 
her  with  a  kiss  and  folded  her  in  his  arms. 

Never  since  that  fatal  dajr,  when  she  carried  her  baby 
boy  to  London,  has  she  known  peace  of  mind  or  freedom 
from  remorse,  nor  ceased  to  reproach  herself  for  disobey 
ing  his  commands.  Her  daily  walk  is  through  Elm 
avenue,  the  old  trysting-place.  Here  she  will  stay  the 
live-long  day  and  dwell  in  the  memories  of  the  past ;  she 
will  imagine  Philip  by  her  side,  and  grow  less  unhappy 
as  his  loving  words  and  ardent  looks  come  back  to  her. 
See!  she  turns  this  way;  a  dash  of  sunlight  breaks 
through  the  interlacing  branches  overhead,  and  falls 
athwart  her  face  ;  her  cheeks  have  fallen  away,  and  their 
soft  roundness  is  gone;  they  are  pallid,  colorless,  all  is 
a  wan  white  except  her  lips,  which  are  still  as  red  as  an 
autumn  leaf,  and  her  eyes  are  subdued  and  saddened. 
She  says  in  a  low  murmur:  "I  will  go  to  Queenie. 
May  be  she  has  heard  of  him  by  this  time."  She  pro 
ceeds  toward  the  gypsy  camp* 

The  white  thorn  and  the  honeysuckle  vie  with  the 
sweet  cherry  blossom,  while  the  lilac  breathes  a  fain 
perfume  through  the  dim  pathway :  the  bright  peony  and 
the  jonquil  add  their  charms  and  delight  the  eye  with  rich 
tints  and  varied  colors. 

Margery  has  reached  the  camp  ;  it  is  just  as  we  left  it, 
except  that  there  are  a  greater  number  of  brown-skinned, 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OF  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  299 

black-eyed  babes  crowing  and  playing  in  the  furzes,  and 
on  the  soft,  springy  moss ;  as  her  eyes  fall  on  them,  she 
puts  her  hand  to  her  side,  as  though  to  still  the  numb 
pain  gathering  around  her  heart,  and  her  lips  are  drawn 
tightly  together.  As  she  enters  the  hut,  Queenie  bends 
low  and  kisses  her  hand,  while  Margery  tries  to  smile, 
but  it  can  find  no  resting-place  on  her  lips. 

"  Have  you  heard  aught  of  him,  Queenie  ?"  she  asks  in 
a  low  voice. 

Queenie  looks  pityingly  at  her  as  she  replies :  "  Only 
that  master — his  grace  is  well,  and  so  busy  wi'  court 
affairs  that  he  can  scarcely  call  a  minute  his  own.  These 
politics,  Mistress  Margery,  are  woeful  things." 

It  is  an  old  tale ;  although  she  knows  that  Queenie  can 
tell  her  nothing  of  Philip,  yet  she  finds  a  bitter  pleasure 
in  hearing  it  repeated. 

Once  there  had  come  a  cavalier  from  London  who  told 
Margery  that  he  knew  Philip  well,  and  he  told  so  many 
venomous  lies  about  him  in  reference  to  an  actress  whom 
he  said  her  husband  loved,  that  she  had  turned  on  him 
like  an  enraged  tigress  and  commanded  him  to  leave 
her  at  once,  or  she  would  call '  for  help  and  have  him 
whipped.  Although  she  disbelieves  the  story,  yet  it  is 
constantly  recurring  to  her  mind  and  increases  her  un- 
happiness.  After  a  long  silence,  Margery  says :  "  Queenie, 
tell  me  my  fortune.  See  if  you  can  tell  me  how  long  it 
be  ere  he  returns,  how  long  I  am  to  live,  or,  better  still, 
when  I  can  die."  She  smiles  as  she  extends  her  hand. 

Queenie  takes  her  hand  within  her  own;  she  looks 
steadily  at  it  for  a  few  minutes,  then  says  in  a  grave 
voice :  "  Sweet  lady,  I  would  rather  bite  my  tongue  off 
by  the  roots  than  tell  what  your  hand  shows  me."  She 
gently  releases  her  hand  and  resumes  her  seat  on  the 
deei'-skins. 

Margery  takes  no  notice  of  her  words,  but  looks  out 


300  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

of  the  half-open  door  and  notices  the  flying  leaves  which 
are  blown  here  and  there  by  the  shifting  wind.  Now  she 
bows  her  head  in  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  close.  Queenie 
goes  to  her,  puts  her  arm  about  her  waist  and  leads  her 
to  her  own  couch ;  here  she  soothes  her  with  endearing 
names  and  gentle  caresses :  "  Queenie,  you  are  very  kind 
— hold  me  tighter  in  your  arms  !" 

She  replies,  coaxingly:  "Mistress  Margery,  queenie 
would  be  very  glad  to  keep  you  here  all  night,  but  your 
father  would  be  troubled  at  your  absence.  The  evening 
is  coming  on,  there  will  be  no  moon  to-night ;  had  not 
Nanar  better  go  with  you  as  far  as  Rooksnest  ?" 

"Not  yet — not  yet:  I  am  happier  now  than  I  have 
been  for  many  a  day ;  let  me  stay  here  a  little  longer." 
She  seems  to  fall  asleep,  while  her  breath  comes  in  a 
series  of  short,  broken  sighs,  and  her  eyelids  quiver  aspen- 
like.  "Oh!"  she  suddenly  exclaims  with  a  long  gasp: 
"  how  my  heart  aches  !  it  is — " 

"  Is  Margery  here  ?  Margery?"  breaks  in  the  General's 
voice  in  inquiring  accents. 

She  tries  to  answer  her  father's  call,  but  she  is  unable. 
Queenie  replies :  "  Yes,  Mistress  Margery  is  here !" 

"  Pistol  me,  girl !  you  have  led  me  a  pretty  chase !  I 
was  sure  you  had  met  with  some  accident.  What  ails 
you  ?  You  look  like  a  broken  lily  lying  there." 

She  opens  her  eyes,  replying :  "  Father,  forgive  me !  I 
am  sorry  I  have  given  you  so  much  trouble ;"  attempting 
to  rise,  she  falls  back  into  queenie's  arms.  "  Father,  wait, 
a  few  minutes — I  am  too  sick — you — " 

The  General  is  alarmed  at  her  evident  illness ;  he  kneels 
down  beside  her,  and  rubs  her  cold,  damp  hands.  She 
exclaims  faintly :  "  I  am  dying,  father !  I  would  I  could 
breathe  my  last  in  the  room  where  Philip  kissed  me — my 
heart  is  easier  now ;  I  think  it  is  what  is  called  broken." 
A  shadowy  smile  flickers  and  dies  on  her  lips.  "  When 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          301 

you  write  to  Philip,  tell  him  I  died  happy ;  tell  him  not 
to  grieve ;  but  if  he  will  think  of  me  sometimes  when  I 
am  gone,  I  shall  know  it,  and  I  will  be  with  him  though 
he  know  it  not.  Cut  off  a  long  braid  of  my  hair;  then 
put  it  behind  his  portrait  in  my  locket !  Hold  me  tighter, 
queenie  dear !  Kiss  me,  father." 

The  owl  hoots  in  the  woods,  the  wind  sighs  drearily 
around  the  hut,  while  the  shades  of  night  are  fast  wrap 
ping  all  things  in  a  darkling  mantle.  The  lilacs  and  the 
white  thorn  still  dispel  their  perfume,  but  the  fragrance 
which  is  strongest  now  is  the  rosemary. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

"  For  where  high  honor  is  the  prize, 
True  virtue  has  a  right  to  rise  : 
Let  courtly  slaves  low  bend  the  knee 
To  wealth  and  vice  in  high  degree : 
Exalted  worth  disdains  to  owe 
Its  grandeur  to  its  greatest  foe." 

SWIFT. 

PHILIP'S  course  of  life  for  the  last  three  years  has  been 
immoral  and  profligate  to  a  high  degree.  His  actions 
have  been  so  licentious  and  unrestrained  by  fear  of  God 
or  man,  that  we  shall  pass  them  over  in  sorrowing  silence, 
merely  premising  that  he  has  burdened  his  estate  so 
heavily  with  debts  and  mortgages,  that  it  has  been  seized 
by  a  decree  of  chancery ;  which  has  vested  all  his  pro 
perty  in  the  hands  of  trustees  who  allow  him  three  thou 
sand  pounds  a  year :  "  scarcely  enough  to  furnish  him  with 
snuff  and  pomatum,"  as  he  declared.  Retrenchment  was 
necessary,  and  for  that  purpose  he  has  gone  abroad. 

He  is  in  Madrid,  the  oasis  of  the  Spanish  desert.  Prior 
26 


302  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST  ENEMY; 

to  his  arrival  here,  he  had  written  three  letters  from 
Vienna.  One  was  to  the  Pretender,  in  which  he  expressed 
sentiments  of  the  "  greatest  devotion  to  his  cause,"  and 
"  begged  that  he  might  be  permitted  ere  long  to  reside  at 
his  court  to  watch  and  cherish  his  majesty  and  the  Stuart 
interest."  Another  was  to  Horace  Walpole,  the  ambas 
sador  at  the  Tuileries ;  it  was  a  duplicate  of  the  first, 
except  that  in  place  of  the  Stuart  cause  he  wrote  the 
Hanoverian  dynasty,  a  slight  difference.  The  last  was 
to  the  exiled  Atterbury,  with  whom  it  is  treason  to 
either  speak  or  correspond. 

He  has  carefully  dressed  himself,  in  anticipation  of  the 
many  conquests  certain  to  ensue  before  he  returns  from 
his  promenade ;  he  really  does  attract  an  unusual  share 
of  attention  from  the  stately  promenaders,  both  men  and 
women,  who  turn  to  look  at  his  handsome  face  and  his 
fine  figure.  A  discolored,  inflamed  face  is  thrust  close 
to  his  own,  and  a  hoarse  voice  exclaims :  "  Hallo,  Whar- 
ton,  I  expected  you  would  be  in  Madrid  ere  long." 

Philip  replies  blandly :  "  Ah !  my  lord,  I  am  overfed 
to  see  you ;  how  is  your  health  ?" 

"  Passable,  but  Spanish  wine  tells  on  my  constitution. 
By  Saint  Jago,  I  get  an  attack  of  blue  vapors  every 
second  week."  It  is  Lord  North,  the  apostate  traitor, 
who  turned  Roman  Catholic  and  Jacobite  to  please  a 
man  who  has  since  forbidden  his  presence  at  his  court. 

Clinging  to  North's  gold-laced  sleeve,  and  balancing 
himself  first  on  his  toes,  then  on  his  heels,  is  the  prime 
minister,  the  Duke  di  Ripperda:  an  arrant  braggart  and 
an  imbecile  coward ;  the  man  of  whom  Spain  has  such 
high  blown  expectations  and  the  avowed  future  restorer 
of  the  Stuarts ;  he  is  capricious,  fickle,  and  a  clums3r  liar ; 
but  for  all,  his  unblushing  impudence  has  secured  him 
many  partisans  and  admirers  who  have  not  as  yet  seen 
his  true  character.  Stanhope,  the  British  minister,  is 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  303 

probably  the  only  man  in  Spain  who  sees  through  him 
and  weighs  his  talents  and  worth  correctly. 

Ripperda  is  of  the  medium  height ;  his  face  is  heavy  and 
swollen  with  excesses  and  debauchery;  his  long  mous 
taches  are  waxed  to  sharp  points  ;  he  is  attired  in  a  rich 
dress  of  violet  satin,  slashed  with  black ;  his  looped  hat 
is  cocked  to  one  side ;  take  him  altogether,  he  is  a  good 
specimen  of  a  fighting,  bullying,  cowardly  Spanish 
Dutchman.  As  Philip  grasps  his  hand  after  the  intro 
duction,  he  feels  a  loathing  for  him  he  cannot  suppress  ; 
he  says  to  himself :  "  Saugh !  a  combination  of  Caliban, 
Silenus^^d  Thersites." 

Ripperda  is  smoking  a  short  red  clay  pipe  tipped  with 
gold,  whose  bowl  is  carved  so  prettily  that  Philip  asks 
him  whether  there  are  any  more  like  it  in  town  ? 

He  replies :  "  Ay,  more !  I  always  carry  a  couple  for 
my  friends.  Have  a  pipe,  North?"  he  says,  and  he 
hands  one  to  each.  He  gives  Philip  his  tobacco  pouch, 
from  which  Philip  fills  his  pipe,  then  passes  it  to  North, 
who  does  the  same. 

Philip,  turning  to  Ripperda,  says:  "Your  grace, 
during  my  stay  in  Vienna,  I  heard  some  rumors  about  a 
reconciliation  between — " 

He  interrupts  him  with  :  "  My  innocent  Duke,  I  know 
what  you  intend  to  say  ;  this  is  my  reply :  I  swear  by 
the  holy  Virgin  that  France  and  Spain  shall  never  be  re 
conciled  as  long  as  I  live.  England's  usurper  shall  not 
only  have  his  German  domains  wrested  from  him,  but  he 
shall  lose  the  English  crown  he  wrongfully  wears!" 

North  growls :  "  I  hope  so." 

Turning  to  Philip,  he  resumes:  "I  trust  your  grace 
echoes  that  wish  ?" 

"  Yes,  with  all  my  heart,"  he  replies,  wondering  at 
Ripperda's  ravings,  certain  that  he  is  drunk  to  talk  about 


304  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

important  state  affairs  in  such  a  loud  voice  while  in  the 
most  frequented  part  of  the  city. 

As  they  walk  along,  an  open  coach  passes  them  in 
which  sits  a  dame  whom  Philip  thinks  he  has  never  seen 
equalled.  She  wears  the  coquettish  lace  veil  of  the 
Spanish  ladies,  which  falls  on  a  pair  of  white,  plump- 
shoulders.  Philip  exclaims  hurriedly:  "Ripperda,  tell 
me,  before  she  passes,  who  is  that  lady  ?" 

"Which  one?"  hiccups  the  minister.  "There  are  so 
many  around  that  I  am  unable  to  answer  your  question." 

Philip  points  her  out ;  he  replies :  "  Saint  Jago !  that 
is  the  O'Beirne,  maid  of  honor  to  her  majesty,  and  a 
very  dragon  of  virtue  she  is,  as  I  have  found  to  my  cost." 

Philip  mutters :  "  Conceited  jackanapes  !"  then  in  a 
louder  voice :  "  I  have  seen  her  before,  somewhere !  Was 
she  ever  in  London?" 

Ripperda  replies  :  "  No,  never  to  my  knowledge.  She 
was  born  here,  and  I  do  not  believe  she  has  ever  been  out 
of  Spain." 

North  says :  "  Excuse  me,  Ripperda.  If  I  am  not 
mistaken,  she  was  in  Dublin  a  few  years  ago.  During 
Alberoni's  time,  he  sent  her  there  as  a  spy  or  an  agent. 
She  is  talented  and  shrewd,  but  she  failed  in  her  mission 
. — a  failure  which  has  done  her  more  good  than  harm,  for 
her  dismissal  by  Alberoni  was  the  cause  of  our  friend's 
interest  in  her." 

Ripperda  adds,  with  a  chuckling  leer :  "  Yes,  that  and 
her  good  looks,  with  perhaps  a  trifle  of  pity,  for  she  is  as 
poor  as  a  Carmelite ;  her  father  was  killed  in  our  army. 
Her  mother's  pension  would  barely  keep  them  from  starv 
ing,  if  I  had  not  secured  her  a  position  as  maid  of 
honor."  He  puffs  forth  a  circling  volume  of  smoke  which 
envelops  the  party. 

"  O'Beirne — Dublin — Alberoni  ?"  Philip,  thinking  over 
these  three  names,  soon  recalls  the  circumstances  with 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  305 

which  they  are  connected.  She  is  the  same  who  brought 
him  Alberoni's  letter,  the  same  whom  he  kissed  in  the 
cathedral.  "  Mistress  Nora,  I  must  renew  that  acquaint 
ance  begun  so  strangely  and  ended  so  abruptly !"  Rais 
ing  his  eyes  at  this  moment,  the  coach  again  is  passing. 
Looking  intently  at  her,  he  lifts  his  hat  and  bows ;  his 
heart  bounds  as  she  returns  the  salute  with  a  distinct 
nod  and  a  sweet  smile. 


CHAPTER  XLYII. 

Lyconides,  what  shall  I  do  now  ? 

PLAUTUS. 

THE  house  is  Mr.  Keene's,  the  British  consul ;  the  com 
pany  in  the  salon  consists  of  two  or  three  loyal  English, 
a  few  Spanish  hidalgos,  and  a  sprinkling  of  French 
noblemen.  Conversation  is  carried  on  in  subdued  tones, 
while  various  couples  are  promenading.  Mr.  Keene  is 
attending  to  his  guests,  and  welcoming  them  with  the 
well-bred  cordiality  for  which  he  is  distinguished.  Sud 
denly  there  is  a  scuffling  noise  heard  on  the  stairs  outside, 
which  draws  all  attention  thither.  The  consul  goes  to 
inquire,  the  reason  of  the  unseasonable  uproar. 

Here  we  must  stop  for  a  moment  to  inform  you  that 
Philip  has  received  an  answer  from  the  Pretender  empow 
ering  him  to  act  as  ambassador  to  Spain,  and  also  to  assist 
Ormond  in  organizing  an  expedition  to  invade  England, 
and,  above  all,  to  vindicate  the  separation  in  the  Preten 
der's  family ;  for  James  has  seriously  offended  both  the 
Queen  of  Spain  and  the  Emperor,  by  his  treatment  of 
his  consort,  Clementina. 

Arriving  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  the  nostrils  of  the 
consul  are  saluted  with  a  strong  smell  of  tobacco,  which 
is  his  special  abhorrence.  The  servant  announces :  "  His 

20* 


306  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Grace,  the  Duke  of  Wharton  and  Northumberland !"  A 
hiccoughing  voice  adds :  "  Prime  minister  as  well,  fel 
low  !"  And  Philip  slowly  staggers  up  stairs.  Reaching 
the  top,  he  exclaims :  "  Well,  Mr.  Consul  Keene,  how 
are  you  ?  I  shall  supersede  you  before  long  for  your 
confounded  impudence  in  being  disloyal — disloyal,  d'  ye 
hear  ?" 

"  Yes,  your  grace.  Will  you  come  in  and  sit  down  ? 
You  look  unwell,"  he  replies  in  a  conciliating  manner, 
adding,  however,  under  his  breath,  ''  Talking,  tippling 
knave." 

"  Keene,  I  tell  you  that  his  majesty's  interests  have 
hitherto  been  managed  by  her  grace  of  Perth,  and  three 
or  four  other  old  women  who  meet  under  the  portals  of 
Saint  Germains.  His  majesty  wants  a  Whig,  and  a  brisk 
one,  to  put  them  in  the  right  train,  and  I  am  the  man ! 
You  may  now  look  upon  me,  Sir  Philip  Wharton,  Knight 
of  the  Garter,  and  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  Knight  of  the 
Bath,  running  a  course,  and,  by  Heaven,  he  shall  be  hard 
pressed!  He  bought  my  family  pictures  when  those 
infernal  chancery  men  griped  me ;  but  they  will  not  be 
long  in  his  possession.  That  account  is  still  open. 
Neither  he  nor  King  George  shall  be  six  months  at  ease 
as  long  as  I  have  the  honor  to  serve  in  the  employ  I  am 
in  now."  Puffing  a  globe  of  smoke  in  the  consul's  face, 
he  leers  insolently  at  him. 

Keene,  reddening  at  his  visitor's  language,  replies: 
"  Your  grace,  though  I  am  not  a  duke,  I  am  a  gentleman 
and  a  true  man.  I  will  not  allow  such  expressions  to  be 
used  in  this  house.  They  are  an  insult  to  my  king  and 
myself.  My  servant  will  show  you  the  door." 

Philip,  steadying  himself  by  an  effort,  replies: 
"  S'blood,  Keene !  I  '11  lower  myself  to  your  level  for  the 
pleasure  of  showing  you  the  punta  riversa,  as  practised 
by  Don  Sabrat  and  myself  with  the  three-edged  blade  1" 


OR,    PHILIP   DUKE    OF    WHARTON'S    CAREER.  307 

"  Thanks !  I  shall  be  at  home  all  day  to-morrow.  It 
will  give  me  unbounded  satisfaction  to  cross  blades  with 
you,  spite  of  your  un-English  name  for  an  un-English 
weapon." 

Philip  replies :  "  Adieu,  Keene ;  I  am  off  for  Kip- 
perda's  levee.  He  is  a  man  after  my  own  heart." 

"  And  your  manners  also,"  adds  Keene,  contemptu 
ously. 

Arriving  at  Ripperda's,  Philip  is  ushered  in,  and  pre 
sented  to  the  minister,  who  exclaims :  "  Carramba, 
Wharton,  I  am  glad  you  have  called !  These  stilted, 
solemn  dons  and  impregnable  donnas  horrify  me.  How 
ever,  greatness  implies  care  and  trouble,  you  know." 

Philip  answers :  "  I  agree  with  you,  Ripperda.  We 
are  both  in  the  same  boat.  Only  an  hour  ago  I  went  to 
Mr.  Keene 's — '* 

"  Insolent  dog!"  interpolates  the  minister. 

Philip  resumes  :  "  Curse  me,  but  the  fellow  was  so  in 
solent  that  I  thrashed  him  before  the  whole  company." 

Ripperda  chuckles  at  this  ;  he  hates  Keene  with  all  his 
heart,  for  on  one  occasion,  when  he  had  called  out, 
"  Keene,  Keene !"  the  consul  refused  to  answer  him, 
totally  ignoring  his  presence.  "  You  ought  to  have 
choked  him,  Wharton." 

"  I  '11  pink  him  to-morrow." 

Ripperda,  throwing  up  his  hands,  exclaims:  "Your 
grace  will  certainly  not  fight  a  plebeian." 

Twisting  his  thumb  and  his  finger  through  his  per 
fumed  curls,  he  replies  :  "  Yes,  I  want  to  teach  him  a  les 
son." 

"  By  the  way,  O'Beirne  is  sitting  to  your  left  there ;  she 
is  convoyed  by  Donna  Lospiratos — a  rigid  duenna,  a 
very  Diana." 

Philip  adds,  "  Guarding  a  Venus ;  I  intend  to  speak  to 
her,  though,  duenna  or  no  duenna.  Help  me  along  by 


308  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

engaging  your  puritanical  friend  until  I  have  finished  with 
Mistress  O'Beirne." 

Ripperda  sneeringly  replies, "  Friend !  Malditos perros  ! 
I  have  six  very  good  friends* — God,  the  Holy  Virgin, 
the  Emperor  and  Empress,  and  the  King  and  Queen  of 
Spain.  For  enemies  every  man  in  Christendom  and  the 
Spanish  nation.  You  see  they  are  all  my  servants,  and 
never  was  a  servant  yet  that  would  not  be  master  if  he 
could,  but  they  lack  the  talent." 

Interrupting  him  with  a  half-serious,  half-joking  expres 
sion,  Philip  says,  "  Ripperda,  if  you  but  knew  it,  you  are 
like  myself — not  worth  a  Spanish  groat.  You  have  no 
character,  man !" 

"  Santa  Maria  purissima!"  cries  the  offended  minister; 
u  our  rich  grapes  have  their  usual  effect  on  an  unseasoned 
head." 

Philip  retorts:  "Not  so,  Ripperda;  not  Spanish 
grapes,  but  Dutch-Spanish  rhodomontades  and  bragga 
docio." 

Ripperda  flushes,  but  does  not  reply,  keeping  his  eyes 
toward  the  doors  where  several  notabilities  have  just 
made  their  appearance. 

Stepping  toward  Mistress  O'Beirne,  Philip  pays  his 
duties  to  her  with  much  cordiality.  She  returns  his. 
greeting  with  a  courteous  freedom  and  vivacity  which 
charm  him.  He  sits  down  beside  her,  and  they  are 
quickly  engaged  in  an  interesting  conversation.  Philip 
broaches  the  topic  of  her  past  mission  to  Dublin.  Stop 
ping  him  at  once,  she  forbids  him  ever  mentioning  the 
subject  again  under  pain  of  her  displeasure.  Turning  to 
her  companion,  she  says,  "  I  must  return  to  court,  now ;  I 
will  thank  your  grace  to  personate  mypreux  chevalier.'" 

He  replies  with  an  ardent  look :  "  From  this  moment 
I  am  your  most  devoted  attendant." 

*  Fact. 


OK,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHAETON'S   CAREER.  309 

She  glances  inquiringly  at  him  from  under  her  droop 
ing  lashes,  and,  as  Philip  thinks,  leans  on  his  arm  more 
than  is  absolutely  necessary.  Bidding  her  good-bye,  he 
asks :  "  I  can  see  you  again  before  long  ?" 

"Your  grace  will  not  find  it  very  difficult  to  see  me 
when  you  wish." 

Kissing  her  hand,  he  returns  to  Ripperda,  his  heart 
beating  with  a  new  sensation.  "  Ripperda,  I  love  that 
girl !  On  my  life,  she  is  lovely  I  Her  wit  is  sparkling, 
her  conversation  is  fresh  and  piquant ;  she  is  superb  !" 

"  Make  her  your  duchess ;  then  you  will  find  her  faults ; 
now  you  see  nothing  but  her  virtues." 

"Sage  man!"  replies  Philip,  adding,  parenthetically, 
"  She  cut  you  once,  did  she  not,  Ripperda  ?" 

The  minister  ignores  the  question,  however,  leaving 
Philip  to  speak  to  a  friend  who  has  just  entered,  an 
.emissary  from  Berlin. 


CHAPTER  XLYIII. 


They  are  preparing  evidence  against  thee. 

THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA. 


THE  consort  Clementina  has  left  James  in  disgust, 
alleging  that  she  was  treated  by  the  Earl  of  Inverness 
and  his  wife — an  arrogant  coquette — with  such  intolerable 
insolence  that  she  would  not  endure  it  any  longer.  She 
is  now  in  the  convent  of  St.  Cecilia  at  Rome,  where  the 
ambitious  priest  Alberoni  is  often  closeted  with  her  for 
hours.  By  thus  supporting  his  favorites  at  the  expense 
of  his  consort,  James  has  roused  the  ire  of  the  emperor 
at  Vienna,  who  is  justly  indignant  at  his  cool  treatment 
of  a  kinswoman  of  his  house.  The  Queen  of  Spain  is 


310  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

likewise  displeased  at  his  uncourteous  conduct.  Thus, 
this  true  Stuart  makes  enemies  of  two  powerful  sovereigns 
at  a  time  when  their  friendship  is  of  the  most  vital  im 
portance. 

Jn  Spain,  Ripperda  has  ignominiously  failed.  He  has 
blustered  and  bragged  like  a  second  Bobadil,  and  has 
given  the  most  opposite  assurances  in  different  quarters. 
To  the  British  minister  he  has  professed  the  greatest 
love  toward  England,  and  palliated  his  warm  endeavors 
for  the  Stuart  cause,  by  vowing  that  he  assisted  James 
merely  as  a  blind.  He  has  culminated  his  career  by  his 
double  dealing  with  the  Austrian  ambassador,  Count 
Konigsegg,  and  the  Spanish  court.  To  the  former  he 
has  protested  that  Spain  would  not  be  outdone  in  her 
exertions  to  help  Austria,  while  immensely  exaggerating 
her  power  and  resources ;  to  the  other  he  alleged  the 
readiness  and  impatience  of  the  Austrian  court  as  re 
garded  affairs  in  France  and  England.  When  both  sides 
were  undeceived,  Ripperda  found  that,  like  abler  men 
before  him,  he  had  stumbled  between  two  stools.  He 
has  been  dismissed  with  a  miserable  pension — a  gra 
tuitous  and  merited  insult.  Madrid  is  in  a  terrible  state 
of  excitement;  Ripperda's  life  would  not  be  worth  a 
pistole  if  he  was  seen  in  public  :  while  in  France,  Bourbon 
scarcely  governs  his  kingdom,  while  Madame  de  Prie  and 
Paris  Duvernay  completely  govern  him.  In  England,  the 
emperor's  creature,  Mr.  Palm,  is  bribing  right  and  left  to 
secure  all  the  Hanoverian  partisans  possible.  The  King 
of  Prussia  has  flouted  the  Hanover  alliance,  while  George 
begins  to  fear  lest  the  electorate  should  be  endangered — 
an  object  of  far  more  interest  to  him  than  England's 
safety. 

Philip  has  been  sick  for  the  last  few  days,  a  state  of 
body  which  has  had  its  effect  on  his  not  unchangeable 
ideas  and  resolves.  After  he  had  calmly  reviewed  his 


OE,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  311 

conduct  at  Mr.  Keene's  house,  his  better  feeling  reigned 
triumphant.  Accordingly  he  had  written  a  humble, 
penitential  letter  to  him,  apologizing  for  his  actions,  and 
hoping  that  all  would  be  forgotten.  The  following  post 
script  he  added  at  the  bottom  of  the  paper :  "  If  you 
mean  to  take  my  challenge  in  earnest,  of  course  I  am 
still  at  your  service."  The  consul's  answer  was  mild  and 
conciliating,  and  he  has  waived  his  right  with  many 
thanks  for  his  grace's  condescension. 

He  is  alone  in  his  room,  sitting  at  his  desk,  intently 
perusing  a  letter  sealed  with  the  arms  of  England.  It  is 
an  order  under  the  privy  seal,  commanding  him,  on  his 
allegiance,  to  return  home  forthwith,  or  he  will  be  out 
lawed,  and  all  his  property  and  valuables  sequestrated. 

"Ah,  ha!  so  he  threatens  me?  Ehbien!  I  prefer 
his  threats  to  his  favors ;  that  he  shall  know.  What  do 
I  want  with  his  pitiful  favor  ?  I  would  rather  carry  a 
musket  in  an  odd-named  Muscovite  regiment,  than  wal 
low  in  riches  by  the  help  of  that  tallow-headed  usurper. 
It  is  very  curious,  though,  how  intimately  acquainted  he 
is  with  my  most  private  actions.  I  must  have  an  enemy 
here  somewhere.  I  '11  write  to  Jamie.  An  account  of 
this  offer  will  amuse  him,  while  at  the  same  time  it  must 
bring  me  into  high  favor  by  showing  my  entire  devotion 
to  his  cause.  Egad !  I  may  be  appointed  prime  minister 
yet.  He  is  a  Stuart,  though — new  toys  are  his  hobbies. 
I  fear  that  even  I  might  be  out  in  the  rain  of  royal  frowns 
once  in  a  while." 

Drawing  a  sheet  of  paper  toward  him,  he  proceeds  to 
give  an  account  of  the  royal  mandate  to  the  Pretender, 
embellishing  it  with  many  little  conceits  and  witty  spar 
kles,  one  or  two  of  which,  edging  slightly  on  the  im 
moral,  are  scarcely  fit  for  the  eyes  of  a  pious  prince. 
Philip  also  announces  to  him  his  intention  of  openly 
espousing  the  Roman  Catholic  religion.  Finishing  his 


312  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

letter,  he  rises  and  exclaims :  "  Pedro,  Pedro !  you  dog, 
come  here!"  Pedro  enters,  and  the  preparations  for  his 
grace's  toilet  begin.  "  Who  is  at  the  palace  to-day, 
Pedro  ?» 

"  I  know  not,  your  grace ;  stories  are  afloat,  though, 
that  the  Marquis  de  Villadarias  will  be  there ;  also  the 
Conde  de  Las  Torres." 

"  Falstaff  and  Alexander — who  else? — what  ladies?" 

"  Your  grace,  on  that  point  I  am  still  more  ignorant." 

"  Will  Mile.  O'Beirne  be  there  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  your  grace,  I  thought  you  meant  ladies !" 

"  S 'death  !  Pedro,  never  mind  your  thoughts ;  thinking 
is  your  master's  privilege." 

Applying  a  trifle  of  powder  to  Philip's  chin,  he  replies 
humbly :  "  Yes,  your  grace." 

"  Recollect  that  Mile.  O'Beirne  is — pah."  Turning 
pettishly  away,  he  pulls  his  lace  ruffles  over  his  hands 
and  smooths  his  sleeves. 

As  Philip  enters  the  royal  gardens,  his  attention  is  at 
tracted  to  a  couple  who  are  only  a  few  yards  distant.  The 
lady  is  Mile.  O'Beirne ;  the  cavalier  is  Edgely  Valentin; 
she  is  leaning  on  his  arm,  apparently  gently  chiding  him 
for  some  fault  or  inattention ;  while  his  eyes  are  filled 
with  an  admiring,  loving  expression  which  arouses  an 
angry  jealousy  in  Philip's  bosom.  He  exclaims  :  "  Again, 
Edgely  Valentin  1  The  threads  of  our  lives  are  strangely 
twisted !  whether  is  it  chance  or  design  ?  Be  it  either, 
by  Heaven  I  '11  cut  them,  if  he  pushes  himself  upon  me  I" 


OE,   PHILIP   DUKE    OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          313 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

Anguis  in  herb 3,  latet. 

EDGELY  VALENTIN  is  dressed  in  black  velvet,  which 
sombre  color  is  scarcely  relieved  by  the  row  of  purple 
rosettes  or  buttons  attached  to  the  facings  of  his  coat. 
Philip  instantly  decides  to  accost  them,  expose  the  im 
postor  Edgely  Valentin,  and  upbraid  her — for  what  ?  for 
inconstancy,  fickleness  ?  As  yet  he  has  scarcely  spoken 
with  her  an  hour  at  a  time,  and  already  jealousy  is  agi 
tating  his  mind.  Rapidly  walking  up  to  the  unconscious 
pair,  he  lifts  his  hat  haughtily  to  Mistress  O'Beirne,  at 
the  same  time  bestowing  upon  her  companion  a  long,  in 
solent  stare,  and  sneeringly  surveying  him  from  head"  to 
foot.  Meanwhile  Valentin's  countenance  is  lowering  and 
angry,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  a  look  of  hatred,  as  he 
undergoes  the  scrutiny. 

"  Has  your  grace  completed  your  examination  of  my 
person?"  handing  his  card  to  Philip,  who  reads  out  "Sir 
Edgely  Warely  I" 

"  You  lie,  sirrah !  It  should  be  Edgely  Valentin,  spy 
and  traitor  !"  Tearing  the  card  to  pieces,  he  throws  it 
on  the  ground. 

With  a  quick,  silent  movement,  Valentin  draws  his  ra 
pier.  Mistress  O'Beirne,  noticing  his  motion,  quickly 
places  herself  in  front  of  him,  and  grasps  the  sharp  blade 
in  her  gloved  hand ;  exclaiming  to  Philip,  with  a  steady 
reproachful  glance :  "  For  shame,  your  grace ! — such  lan 
guage  and  behavior  in  my  presence !  in  the  royal  precincts 
as  well  ?" 
27 


314  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Stammering  an  indistinct  apology  Philip  lifts  his  hat 
and  strides  away. 

Sheathing  his  rapier,  while  his  teeth  are  set,  and  his 
face  drawn  as  with  pain,  Yalentin  says:  "An  old  feud, 
Nora!" 

"A  strange  time  and  place  to  settle  an  old  feud  !"  re 
plies  the  offended  girl. 

''  It  was  not  of  my  seeking,"  he  replies,  in  a  low,  plead 
ing  voice. 

"  I  know  it,  Sir  Edgely.  I  blame  only  his  grace  for  the 
disagreeable  rencontre.  I  thought  him  more  of  a  gallant 
— more  truly  courteous  in  his  manners." 

"  He  is,  generally ;  he  doubtless  desired  your  company 
more  than  the  adjustment  of  a  quarrel." 

Her  color  heightens  at  his  words.  Turning  to  an 
orange  tree  close  by  her,  she  plucks  a  twig,  at  the  same 
time  replying  in  a  careless  manner,  "  Flatterer !  what 
could  his  grace  want  with  me?" 

"What  many  a  better  man  would:  win  you  for  his 
wife." 

Dropping  his  arm,  she  says  warningly :  "  Sir  Edgely, 
you  are  again  approaching  that  forbidden  topic!  Albe- 
roni's  letter  of  introduction  commended  you  as  a  true 
friend  to  the  cause,  and  an  able  counsellor.  He  did  not 
specify  that  you  were  to  be  a  lover  as  well  as  an  adviser." 

Hanging  his  head,  he  is  silent,  and  his  lips  tremble  for 
an  instant. 

Grinding  his  teeth  with  rage,  Philip  invokes  curses  on 
his  supposed  rival.  "A  base-born,  fatherless  hireling! 
flying  at  my  game !  'Tis  a  pity  I  did  not  slit  his  nose 
while  he  was  in  London,  as  Cowper  suggested ;  he  would 
have  probably  found  less  favor  in  her  eyesl  As  she 
likes — she  prefers  the  crow  to  the  eagle ;  she  certainly 
has  a  right  to  a  choice.  I  '11  to  Stanhope  ;  he  can,  may 
be,  tell  me  more  than  I  already  know  about  this  Sir 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON's    CAREER.          315 

Edgely   Warely — forsooth!"      Leaving  the   garden,   he 
walks  towards  the  minister's  house. 

Arriving  at  his  destination,  he  is  announced  by  the 
servant,  and  requested  to  walk  up  stairs  and  await  the 
coming  of  the  minister.  Opening  the  first  door  he  meets, 
a  scene  greets  his  eyes  which  roots  him  to  the  floor  in 
speechless  amazement.  Stanhope  is  standing  in  the  cen 
tre  of  the  room,  his  face  wearing  an  expression  of  mixed 
annoyance,  perplexity,  and  contempt ;  while,  grovelling 
on  the  floor,  with  his  arms  around  the  minister's  feet, 
and  his  clothes  in  sad  disorder,  is  the  once  vain-glorious 
Ripperda,  late  prime  minister.  He  exclaims  in  a  gut 
tural  patois:  "Your  kind  excellency,  you  shall  know 
everything,  if  you  will  only  save  me  from  the  cut-throats 
and  assassins  who  would  murder  me.  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  the  Yienna  affair,  which  means  the  entire  uproot 
ing  of  the  Protestants  and  the  universal  power — " 

Quickly  clapping  his  hand  on  Ripperda's  mouth,  Stan 
hope  turns,  and  looks  sternly  and  suspiciously  at  Philip, 
saying :  "  It  seems  your  grace  has  a  new  occupation — 
spy." 

"Mr.  Stanhope,  appearances  are  against  me;  but  I 
give  you  the  word  of  an  English  gentleman,  that  it  is  an 
entire  accident  which  has  made  me  a  witness  of  this 
scene." 

Bowing  politely,  Stanhope  replies :  "  I  believe  you. 
It  is  needless  for  me  to  ask  your  silence  in  regard  to  all 
you  have  seen  or  heard  ?" 

"  On  my  honor,  it  shall  never  be  mentioned." 

Hurriedly  retiring,  he  exclaims:  "Euge!  Ripperda 
at  Stanhope's  feet,  blabbing  secrets  of  state !  the  brave 
Ripperda,  the  invincible,  astute  Ripperda,  Spain's  chiefest 
honor,  wearing  out  his  satin  breeches  at  English  Stan 
hope's  feet !  This  is  indeed  a  discovery !  I  '11  not  wait 
for  his  excellency's  opinion  of  Yalentin:  the  greater 


316  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

absorbs  the  smaller  matter."  Walking  along  absorbed 
in  his  thoughts,  he  brushes  against  a  tall  cavalier,  with 
military  moustaches  of  wonderful  length.  Turning  to 
apologize,  he  sees  his  friend  Count  Konigsegg,  to  whom 
he  was  introduced  by  Ripperda. 

"  Well  met,  Count,  the  man  above  all  others  whom  I 
wish  to  see !" 

He  replies :  "  I  am  flattered,  your  grace." 

"Not  the  slightest  necessit}^  Count,  I  assure  you. 
You  see  I  have  been  unable  to  leave  my  room  for  the  last 
week ;  consequently  I  am  rather  behind  the  rest  of  Ma 
drid  in  regard  to  passing  events.  You  are  always  well 
versed  in  current  news  and  items.  I  beg  you,  share  yout 
stock  with  mel" 

"  With  pleasure,  your  grace." 

"  One  moment,  Count,  before  you  begin.  Do  you 
know  aught  about  a  fellow  who  styles  himself  Sir  Edgely 
Warely  ?  He  seems  to  ruffle  it  gayly  at  court  I" 

"  Nothing,  except  that  he  was — and  is  still,  for  all  I 
know — a  favorite  of  Alberoni,  who  has  often  trusted  him 
on  errands  requiring  a  cool  head  and  a  strong  arm." 

"A  good  cheek,  as  well, by  St.  Jago!"  adds  Philip. 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  is  to  be  married  in  a  short  time 
to  one  of  her  majesty's  maids — a  Mile.  O'Beirne." 

Philip  starts,  exclaiming,  "Never;  she  would  never 
accept  him  I" 

"  Why  not  ?  He  is  quite  a  fine-looking  man,  and  lie 
appears  to  possess  plenty  of  money — far  more  than  she 
has,  at  all  events." 

Philip  vacantly  replies,  "  Yes  ;"  and  he  walks  along  in 
silence,  musing  over  Mistress  O'Beirne 's  wit  and  beauty. 


OR,    PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          317 


CHAPTER  L. 

Vain  human  kind  !  fantastic  race  ! 
Thy  various  follies  who  can  trace? 

SWIFT. 

"  MLLE.  O'BEIRNE,  you  say  I  am  a  stranger  to  you  I — 
that  you  are  unknown  to  me.  Does  not  our  acquaint 
ance  date  years  back,  in  your  father's  birthplace — Dub 
lin?  Can  you  repulse  me  when  I  tell  you  that,  ever 
since  that  day  in  the  cathedral,  I  have  never  ceased  to 
think  of  you,  while  mourning  the  fate  which  separated 
us?" 

Philip  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  the  moon  shining  on 
his  upturned  face  as  he  pleaded  his  love,  and  asked  her 
to  be  his  wife.  Looking  steadfastly  at  him,  she  replied 
in  an  unsteady  voice : — 

"  Your  grace,  to  say  that  I  have  never  thought  of  you 
since  that  time  would  be  untrue ;  but  my  feelings  toward 
you  have  never  been  greater  than  those  of  friendship." 
He  was  about  to  interrupt  her  •,  but,  silencing  him  with 
a  motion  of  her  hand,  she  resumed :  "  You  must  recol 
lect,  moreover,  that  I  am  penniless  !  I  could  not  bring 
you  the  dowr}7  a  duke's  bride  should  possess !" 

"  Mile.  O'Beirne — Nora !  I  will  not  argue  with  you.  If 
you  refuse  me,  my  death  be  on  your  hands.  I  could  not 
live  alone  when  you  might  be  my  constant  companion 
and  beloved  wife." 

"  Your  grace,  this  is  a  threat  which  no  gentleman 
would  make — rise,  I  pray  you !  To-morrow,  when  you 

27* 


318  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

are  cooler — when  you  have  reflected  on  what  you  have 
said — " 

"  You  will  allow  me  to  renew  my  proposals,  dear 
Nora?" 

"  No !  I  was  about  to  say  that  you  will  blame  your 
self  and  me  also  for  your  rash  conduct  and  unconsidered 
words,  which — which — "  Bursting  into  tears  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands. 

Quickly  rising,  he  threw  his  arms  around  her  waist, 
despite  her  resistance,  and  kissed  her  repeatedly  while 
holding  her  hand  imprisoned  in  his. 

"  This  is  an  outrage,  sir !  Release  me,  or  I  will  alarm 
the  palace!"  she  exclaimed  in  quick,  broken  accents. 

"  Be  Duchess  of  Wharton — be  my  wife !" 

Steadying  her  voice  by  a  strong  effort,  she  replied : 
"  Release  me,  and  I  will  give  you  my  answer !" 

He  did  so,  and  awaited  her  reply  in  mute  expectation. 

"  Your  grace,  consider  carefully  all  I  say ;  consider 
the  bold,  unwomanly  words  that  I  shall  utter ;  consider 
how  lost  to  all  shame  I  am  to  make  so  bold  an  avowal — " 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  while  her  breath  came  quick 
and  fast ;  then,  in  the  verdurous,  ivy-covered  balconj', 
she  told  him  a  tale — true  or  false — which  set  his  blood 
on  fire,  and  made  everything  about  him  whirl  in  an  un 
steady  dance.  She  told  him  that  she  had  never  ceased 
to  think  of  him  since  their  interview  in  Dublin,  and  that, 
when  she  had  seen  him  on  the  Prado,  she  had  felt  hap 
pier  than  ever  she  had  been  before.  "  But  you  must  not 
ask  me  to  be  your  wife  until  you  are  sure  that  you  know 
your  own  mind.  I  am  proud  and  penniless ;  yet  a  king 
could  not  have  me  save  as  his  consort.  My  temper  is 
quick,  and  not  very  easily  controlled.  These  -are  bad 
qualities  in  a  wife ;  but  it  is  better  you  should  know  all 
before  asking  me  to  be  yours  for  life." 

Catching  her  in  his  arms,  he  exclaimed :  "  Nora,  you 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  319 

are  a  noble  woman  I  Unfortunately  for  your  purpose, 
you  have  only  riveted  the  chains  which  bind  me  to  you 
the  faster.  From  this  moment  you  are  my  wife — " 

"  Wait !  I  will  not  consent  until  you  have  had  tiine  to 
reflect  on  your  actions.  Come  to  me  one  month  from 
to-night — you  shall  then  receive  my  answer." 

Dashing  his  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  balcony,  he  ex 
claimed  :  "  Nora,  I  will  not  leave  this  spot  until  you  con 
sent!" 

She  looked  pained  and  embarrassed,  while  her  hands 
clasped  around  each  other.  Taking  a  ring  from  his 
pocket,  he  placed  it  on  her  passive  finger  and  said: 
"Nora,  Duchess  of  Wbarton,  and,  better  still,  Philip's 
love."  She  offered  no  resistance,  and  the  ring  glittered 
bravely  in  the  moonlight. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase. 


LOVELACE. 


WHEN  Mile.  O'Beirne  had  accepted  Philip  as  her 
future  husband,  she  had  forgotten  that,  as  a  maid  of 
honor,  it  was  her  duty  to  ask  the  permission  of  her 
royal  mistress  ere  the  step  was  taken.  She  had  not 
thought  about  it  at  the  time,  and  when  she  told  her  ma 
jesty,  requesting  her  permission,  the  answer  came  quick 
and  angrily :  "  No  I  you  are  both  mad !  The  alliance 
would  be  productive  of  the  worst  consequences.  The 
Duke  of  Wharton  is  known  to  be  the  most  profligate, 
immoral  man  of  the  age!  Moreover  he  is  such  a  spend 
thrift,  all  his  property  is  sequestrated  by  the  English 
government  for  his  loyalty  to  James.  What  funds  he 
may  have  with  him  will  soon  be  expended;  then  how 


320  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

could  you  live  ?  You  have  not  a  pistole  you  can  call 
your  own." 

Nora  had  almost  swooned  at  this  unexpected  refusal, 
and  she  had  faintly  wondered  what  his  grace  would  do 
or  say. 

When  Philip  heard  of  her  majesty's  indignant  refusal, 
he  became  well-nigh  crazy,  and  his  after  excitement  and 
anger  produced  a  dangerous  relapse,  in  consequence  of 
which  he  was  again  prostrated.  The  court  doctors  who 
attended  him  pronounced  him  in  a  very  critical  state, 
declaring  that  unless  some  change  for  the  better  took 
place,  he  could  not  long  survive.  He  would  not  eat,  and 
would  drink  nothing  but  brandy. 

When  the  queen  heard  of  his  forlorn  condition  and  the 
dangerous  symptoms  of  his  illness,  she  sent  him  a  kindly 
message,  hinting  that  if  he  thought  his  conduct  and 
morals  would  be  more  steady  in  future,  and  if  he  would 
embrace  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  she  might  think  of 
recalling  her  former  decision. 

Philip  received  this  message  during  the  absence  of  the 
doctors.  He  immediately  sprang  from  his  bed,  forced 
his  frightened  valet  to  dress  him,  while  threatening  him 
with  his  rapier  point,  rushed  precipitately  to  the  palace, 
forcing  himself  through  the  crowd  of  courtiers  and  gen 
tlemen  in  waiting,  and  threw  himself  on  his  knees  before 
the  throne. 

Behind  the  royal  chair  stands  Nora  O'Beirne,  fright 
ened  and  thunderstruck  at  Philip's  boldness  in  thus  forc 
ing  himself  on  her  majesty's  notice.  Close  beside  her  is 
Lord  North,  eying  Philip  with  a  wondering  stare,  wait 
ing  for  a  denouement  of  the  affair.  On  either  side  of  her 
majesty  stand  the  Conde  de  las  Torres,  and  the  proud 
Marquis  de  Yilladarias.  Count  Kb'nigsegg  can  be  seen 
amid  the  assemblage  surrounding  the  throne. 

All  eyes  are  turned  on  Philip,  as  he  cries  in  a  weak, 


OR,  PHILIP  DUKE  OP  WHARTON'S  CAREER.        321 

unsteady  voice :  "  Your  majesty,  have  mercy  on  me — on 
us !  I  cannot  live  without  her !" 

The  queen  glances  pityingly  at  him,  while  inclining  her 
ear  to  las  Torres,  who  whispers  a  few  words  in  a  low 
voice.  Nodding  her  head,  she  says  to  Philip : — 

"  Your  grace,  as  a  daughter  of  the  church,  we  cannot 
allow  our  maid  to  unite  herself  with  a  heretic ;  that  is  an 
impassable  bar  to  the  union." 

Rising,  Philip  replies  in  a  louder  voice  than  before : 
"  Your  majesty,  I  do  here  most  solemnly  an^ruly  abjure 
the  Protestant  belief,  assuring  you  that  I  am  in  heart 
and  soul  as  good  a  Catholic  as  yourself;  and  have  been 
all  my  life,  privately  if  not  openly  I" 

The  queen  and  las  Torres  exchange  a  significant  smile. 
Turning  again  to  Philip,  she  resumes :  "  In  our  opinion, 
your  projected  marriage  is  hasty  and  ill-advised.  We 
greatly  fear  that  you  will — too  late — repent  your  step." 
Turning  to  Nora,  she  says  rather  imperiously :  "  Mile. 
O'Beirne,  if  you  truly  love  and  respect  his  grace  of 
Wharton,  go  to  him !  Holy  Mary  bless  and  guard  you 
both,  is  our  sincerest  wish !" 

Grasping  Nora's  hand  with  a  quick  movement,  Philip 
leads  hei  through  the  opening  lane  of  wondering  courtiers 
and  smiling  dames  toward  the  anteroom,  where  they  can 
be  alone.  Passing  along,  he  notices  Edgely  Valentin,  at 
whom  he  glances  contemptuously,  although  a  pang  of 
jealousy  strikes  his  heart  as  he  observes  Nora  turn  pale, 
while  her  hand  trembles  a  little.  Yalentin's  face  bears 
an  expression  of  suffering  hatred  as  he  returns  Philip's 
look,  while  his  eyes  rest  with  a  curiously  mixed  expres 
sion  of  envy  and  triumph  on  Nora's  downcast  face. 

They  are  to  be  married  to-night,  at  Philip's  earnest 
entreaties.  He  intends  to  take  her  with  him  to  Rome, 
there  to  spend  the  honeymoon,  a  project  to  which  Nora 
has  unwillingly  acceded.  She  wished  to  delay  the  nup- 


322  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

tials  for  at  least  three  months ;  deprecating  any  delay, 
however,  his  waywardness  carried  the  day. 
Le  roi  est  mort,  vive  le  roi  I 


CHAPTER  LTI. 

Les  cartes  sont  brouillees. 

* 

As  they  enter  the  royal  presence,  the  Pretender  wel 
comes  them  very  warmly,  even  deigning  to  kiss  Nora's 
cheek;  a  liberty  which  she  does  not  resent,  although 
Philip  little  relishes  his  sovereign's  freedom.  Turning 
to  Philip,  James  says :  "  A  running  ship  collects  no  bar 
nacles,  Wharton  ;  but  it  seems  you  have  secured  a  glori 
ous  prize  1  We  almost  envy  you  your  blushing  bride !" 

"  If  it  but  stop  at  envy,  your  majesty,  I  shall  be  well 
pleased,"  replies  Philip,  sullenly. 

"  Out  on  thee  for  thy  churlishness,  man !"  James 
laughs,  with  a  glance  at  the  Countess  of  Inverness,  who 
replies  by  surveying  Nora  with  a  spiteful  sneer. 

The  Earl  of  Dunbar,  noticing  her  disdainful  gesture, 
remarks  aside  :  "  Terribly  coarse  and  vulgar  I" 

"  Very !"  is  the  low  reply. 

Assuming  a  graver  demeanor,  James  says  to  Philip : 
"  We  would  speak  with  yon  in  private  !  Our  friends  will 
amuse  her  grace  meanwhile ;"  motioning  Philip  to  follow 
him.  Entering  a  small,  shabby,  ill-furnished  room,  James 
resumes,  in  a  conciliating,  familiar  manner :  "  Your  grace, 
we  have  heard  that  you  have  openly  embraced  the  true 
faith  ?" 

"  It  is  true,  your  majesty !" 

"  What  we  now  intend  to  say  to  you  must  be  taken  in 
good  part — as  we  say  it  in  good  meaning.  We  know  of 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          323 

your  grace's  gallantries  and  escapades,  and  have  sorrowed 
anent  them  as  being  of  an  ungodly  and  immoral  nature. 
We  would  desire  you  to  curb  your  spirit,  and  so  conduct 
yourself  as  to  merit  our  special  approval  and  esteem,  as 
well  as  to  close  the  mouths  of  those  who  are  envious  of 
your  great  parts  and  genius.  It  would  ill  become  us  to 
have  the  world  at  large  say  that  we  looked  kindly  on  a 
roystering,  godless  gallant." 

Philip  answers  haughtily:  "Your  majesty  entertains 
but  an  ill  opinion  of  me  !  I — " 

"Nay,"  nay!  Wharton,  you  are  mistaken!  Our  last 
words  were  meant  rather  as  a  prophecy  of  what  you 
might  become,  if  you  did  not  put  a  check  on  your  Tit 
and  exuberanc}*.  It  is  your  sprightliness  and  vivacity 
which  have  heretofore  led  you  into  so  many  misadven 
tures." 

"  Forgive  me,  your  majesty !  In  future,  my  conduct 
shall  be  based  on  your  majesty's,  and  it  will  certainly 
tend  to  cure  one  of  my  vices  to  have  such  an  example  to 
follow!" 

"  Nay !  not  such  a  good  example,  if  Lockhart  of  Carn- 
warth  speaks  truly  !  He  has  many  times  told  us  of  our 
infirmities.  Assoilzie  him!  as  our  father  would  have 
said !" 

Philip  replies :  "  A  good  man  and  true,  though  over 
brusque  in  his  ways,  under  favor,  your  majesty ;  I  think 
he  is  as  true  a  friend  to  the  cause  as  any  gentleman  in 
Rome." 

Frowning  slightly,  James  replies :  "  Yes !  truly  he  is 
over  brusque." 

There  is  a  silence,  until  James  says :  "  By  the  rood ! 
it  is  time  for  mass !  Our  confessor  may  wax  impatient 
at  our  long  delay !" 

Leading  the  way,  they  re-enter  the  saloon. 

Philip,  noticing  that  the  Earl  of  Dunbar  is  whispering 


324  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

to  Nora,  walks  quickly  toward  them,  upon  which  they 
begin  to  converse  on  indifferent  subjects.  Meanwhile 
my  Lady  Inverness  looks  on  in  disdainful  silence.  James 
signifying  that  the  audience  is  ended,  Philip  leads  Nora 
out,  and  they  enter  the  coach  awaiting  them  at  the 
palace  door. 

Philip  is  apparently  vexed  and  angry.  He  says,  rather 
coldly:  "Your  grace  will  make  all  necessary  arrange 
ments  to  leave  immediately  for  Paris,  or  Madrid,  or 
perchance  London,  I  have  not  quite  determined  which ; 
but  Rome  shall  contain  us  no  longer."(  Settling  himself 
in  the  far  corner,  he  looks  stolidly  out  of  the  window. 

Nora  wonders  at  his  sullen  behavior,  and  fears  that 
she  has  offended  him.  She  replies  affectionately :  "  Why, 
Philip,  how  abrupt  you  are !  Of  course,  wherever  you 
wish  to  go,  it  is  my  happiness  to  accompany  you.  But 
why  should  you  be  so  stern  ?  Have  I  offended  you  ?" 

"No,  Nora,  you  have  not,  but  his  fictitious  majesty 
saw  fit  to  take  up  all  my  old  offences,  warning  me,  at  the 
same  time,  that  if  my  conduct  did  not  change  for  the 
better,  he  would  prefer  my  absence  to  my  presence." 

She  replies  quickly :  ''  Philip,  you  must  have  misun 
derstood  him '  Let  us  remain  here  a  few  days  at  any 
rate,  and  you  will  find  how  gracious  he  is.  For  my 
sake,  dear  Philip,  do  not  call  him  '  fictitious  ;'  he  is  our 
true  king,  is  he  not  ?" 

Glancing  angrily  at  her,  he  replies :  "  You  justly  con 
sider  him  gracious  and  amiable ;  I  add  a  title  of  my  own — 
omni-loving." 

"  Yes,  Philip,  he  has  a  loving  heart,  and  in  it  all  his 
true  subjects  have  a  share." 

"  Some  have  too  great  a  share,  I  fear  me.  However, 
loving  heart  or  not,  amiability  or  crabbeclness,  to-day 
will  see  us  on  our  journey." 

"  To  where  ?"  she  asks,  timidly. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  325 

"  By  the  time  we  have  arrived  at  our  stopping-plaoe, 
you  will  know.  Until  then — peace!  I  pray  you!" 

Her  eyes  fill  at  his  words,  and  a  silence  falls  between 
them.  She  glances  at  him  with  a  troubled  look,  but  his 
eyes  are  closed  as  if  in  sleep. 

"Alas!  when  Alberoni  conjured  me  on  my  loyalty 
to  obey  Sir  Edgely's  counsels,  I  knew  not  what  they 
would  be  when  I  gave  my  blind  compliance !  I  recollect 
his  very  words:  'Mile.  O'Beirne,  Wharton  must  be 
gained  to  our  side.  Sir  Edgely  has  failed  from  no  fault 
of  his  own,  and  though  I  know  well  your  mutual  love, 
yet  must  it  be  sacrificed  for  our  common  causes — the 
holy  Catholic  faith  and  the  support  of  King  James,  both 
here  and  abroad.  Let  Sir  Edgely  be  seen  with  you  in 
public  where  his  grace  may  observe  you,  his  hatred  and 
contempt  of  Sir  Edgely  is  a  handle  by  which  we  can 
work.  His  pride  will  be  aroused ;  your  own  wit  and 
beauty  can  do  the  rest.  Once  married,  guide  him  with 
invisible  reins,  and  make  him  true  to  church  and  state ;' 
and  I  have  done  it  all ;  been  false  to  him,  and  a  liar  to 
my  husband !  No !  not  that.  I  did  love  him  when  he 
asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  kissed  me  with  his  fiery  lips, 
held  me  in  his  arms,  and  called  me  his  '  duchess.'  That 
frenzy  has  gone,  and  now — Alberoni  must  commend  my 
talent,  however.  He  will  praise  me,  for  Philip  is  now  a 
Catholic,  a  Jacobite,  and  my  husband — all  by  my  exer 
tions  !  I  must  write  to  his  eminence  and  inform  him  of 
Philip's  anger  at  his  majesty  •,  it  may  be  dangerous  to  the 
cause !  Edgely  can  take  the  message,  poor  fellow."  She 
shudders,  while  the  coach  draws  up  with  a  loud  clatter, 
and  they  alight. 

28 


326  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 


CHAPTER  LHI. 

The  wondering  world,  where'er  he  moves, 
With  new  delight  looks  up. 

SWIFT. 

IN  a  lofty,  sombre  chamber  of  the  convent  of  St. 
Cecilia,  Cardinal  Alberoni  and  the  titular  Queen  Cle 
mentina  are  conversing  in  low  tones  ;  while  Edgely  Va 
lentin  is  standing  behind  the  cardinal's  chair,  calm  and 
•motionless.  Alberoni  is  short  and  squat,  with  ponderous 
shoulders  and  a  bull  neck  ;  his  head  is  unusually  large, 
and  his  complexion  swarthy;  his  jawbones  are  promi 
nent  ;  his  eyes  deep  in  their  sockets,  yet  bold  and  pierc 
ing;  a  moustache  hides  his  upper  lip,  while  i  small, 
peaked  tuft  adorns  his  chin.  On  his  head  is  a  tight 
skullcap ;  his  person  is  enveloped  in  a  cardinal's  robe. 
He  is  attentively  reading  a  short  note  bearing  the  signa 
ture:  "Nora,  Duchess  of  Wharton."  Laying  it  down, 
he  says :  "  Sir  Edgely,  accept  my  thanks  for  this  ;  I  will 
attend  to  it,  and  see  that  his  majesty  pursues  a  more 
conciliating  policy  toward  his  grace." 

Bowing  low,  Yalentin  replies :  "  Your  eminence,  he  is 
a  valuable  acquisition  to  our  party;  under  favor,  I 
think  it  was  because  his  majesty  showed  a  liking  for 

Mile her  grace,  that  he  was  displeased;  I  judge  so 

from  a  previous  interview  with  her  grace." 

Clementina  says,  with  a  sigh :  "  Surely  James  has 
enough  without  her,  to  grace  his  reputation  and  divide 
his  attentions." 

Covertly  smiling,  Alberoni  inquires :  "  How  does  my 
Lord  Dunbar  now?" 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  32f 

Valentin  replies :  "  High  in  favor,  your  eminence,  and 
likely  to  continue  so,  as  is  also  my  Lady  Inverness." 

Striking  her  hands  on  the  table,  the  queen  exclaims, 
with  an  angry  look :  "  The  courtesan!" 

Valentin  pursues :  "  She  is  as  conceited  and  arrogant 
aseverl" 

Alberoni  adds :  "  Two  qualities  tending  to  shame  and 
mortification.  Is  North  in  town  ?" 

"  No,  your  eminence ;  he  has  gone  to  the  trenches  at 
Gibraltar,  to  offer  his  services  to  las  Torres." 

"  Indeed !  If  the  Conde"  appreciates  him  at  his  true 
worth,  he  will  send  him  back  again — a  blustering,  ill-bred 
fellow, with  scarce  a  spark  of  talent  or  energy!" 

"  He  is  a  good  Catholic  I"  exclaims  the  queen. 

"  Your  majesty,  a  Catholic  may  do  more  harm  to  his 
religion  as  an  exponent  than  an  opponent,"  he  dryly  re 
plies,  adding:  "  Villadarias  should  have  taken  the  com 
mand  at  the  trenches ;  I  distrust  las  Torres,  he  is  too 
wordy — too  wordy." 

The  queen  replies :  "  Yes,  he  should ;  but  he  is  too 
shrewd.  He  thinks  there  is  little  prospect  of  gaining 
honor  there,  and  is  willing  enough  to  allow  his  colleague 
to  reap  the  crop  of  bombs  and  bullets.  In  his  opinion, 
the  Rock  is  impregnable.  Las  Torres  has  declared  that 
his  majesty's  flag  shall  wave  over  its  ramparts  in  a  very 
short  time  ?" 

Alberoni  replies :  "  Villadarias  is  culpably  timid  in  this 
affair.  Gibraltar  is  feebly  defended  ;  our  land  forces  are 
strong,  and  if  necessary  we  could  safely  attack  it  on  the 
water  side  1  There  will  be  a  terrible  slaughter ;  but  the 
Rock  must  capitulate ;  then  the  desire  of  my  life  will  be 
gratified  1"  Rubbing  his  hands  together,  his  eyes  sparkle 
joyously. 

Glancing  at  him,  the  queen  says :  "  Cardinal,  it  is  long 
since  we  have  seen  you  so  happy?" 


328  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

"  Your  majesty  will  see  me  happier  if  the  Rock  capitu 
lates  !" 

"  Pardon  me,  your  eminence,"  interrupts  Yalentiu  in  a 
low  whisper:  "Here  is  a  communication  respecting 
Fleury,"  handing  him  a  small  packet,  which  Alberoni 
conceals  in  his  gown. 

Overhearing  the  name,  the  queen  inquires :  "  Speaking 
of  Fleury,  cardinal,  how  does  he  stand  in  your  estima 
tion?" 

"A  second  Mazarin,  with  rather  more  honesty  and 
principle."  Turning  to  Valentin,  he  resumes:  "How 
did  Mile.  Nora  relish  the  change  in  her  name  and 
quality  ?" 

He  replies  bitterly:  "Too  well,  I  judge,  your  emi 
nence." 

"  Too  well !  What  mean  you  ?  Can  aught  be  done  in 
too  willing  a  spirit  for  Holy  Mother  Church  ?" 

Valentin  replies  confusedly :  "  Forgive  me !  I  hardly 
knew  what  I  said!" 

Looking  fixedly  at  him,  he  replies  :  "  My  son,  take  heed 
that  you  have  no  thought  outside  of  the  church,  except 
such  as  I  may  bless  and  sanction." 

Counting  her  beads,  the  queen  mutters  her  prayers 
with  eyes  downcast  and  humble. 

Alberoni  continues,  "  You  may  retire,  my  son." 

"  Pardon  me,  your  eminence !  Before  I  go,  I  would 
like  to  intimate  that  if  his  grace  could  be  induced  to  serve 
in  the  trenches  in  some  superior  capacity,  he  would  be 
still  further  involved"  with  us,  less  likely  to  return  to  St. 
James'  ?" 

"  My  son,  your  astuteness  is  commendable.  True — his 
connection  with  England  severed,  he  would  be  with  us 
from  sheer  necessity.  I  will  have  his  thoughts  turned  in 
that  direction,  if  possible !" 

Touching  a  small  bell,  a  young  girl  enters,  dressed  in 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  329 

the  robes  of  a  novice ;  Alberoni  says  quickly :  "  My 
daughter! — "Wharton — hint  to  him  that  honor  and  fame 
are  to  be  gained  at  Gibraltar — send  at  once — anonymous." 

Bowing  low,  she  kisses  his  hand,  retiring  as  silently  as 
she  had  entered.  Turning  to  Valentin,  he  says :  "  You 
can  mention  to  her  grace  our  design,  so  that  she  may 
work  in  unison  with  us !" 

The  stone  floor  echoes  under  Valentin's  feet,  while 
the  door  creaks  harshly  as  he  closes  it  after  his  exit. 
He  does  not  leave  immediately.  Standing  on  the  thres 
hold,  he  places  his  ear  to  the  door,  through  which  the 
voices  of  the  queen  and  Alberoni  can  be  dimly  heard. 

"  Not  a  word  that  interests  me  !  A  pest  on  the  car 
dinal  1  one  would  think  he  knew  I  listened  outside,  he 
broaches  such  trifling  subjects? — if  he  will  but  fight 
against  old  England,  it  will  be  one  step  more  in  the  right 
direction ;  one  step  nearer  to  the  consummation.  Once  I 
was  Jacobite  for  James'  sake,  but  when  she  told  me  the 
story  of  her  life — of  the  violated  promise,  I  became  Ja 
cobite  for  my  own  sake,  and  when  for  that  cause.  I  had 
either  to  lose  my  revenge  or  Nora,  I  chose  the  latter, 
letting  him  have  her  as  his  wife  I — a  Delilah  and  a 
Samson !  My  king,  my  honor,  and  my  love  have  I  sur 
rendered  !  For  twenty-seven  years  has  the  finger  of 
scorn  been  pointed  at  me ;  for  twenty-seven  years  have  I 
been  gibed  and  taunted  with  a  bastard  origin ! — Furies ! 
Never  will  I  forget  that  day  when  he  drove  me  from  him 
at  Stair's,  with  the  old  taunt,  the  same  sneer  which  has 
been  my  portion  all  my  life.  Act  of  attainder — seques 
tration — ignominy.  They  shall  be  my  weapons,  forged  by 
deluded  ministers.  His  nature  is  not  like  mine.  He 
would  sink  under  poverty  and  disgrace ;  Jbut  he  shall  try 
them,  he  shall  try  them  I  curse  him  1  If  I  can  reduce 
him  to  beggary  and  despair,  I  '11  never  lose  sight  of  him ; 
I  '11  close  my  hands  around  his  white  neck  and  press  the 

28* 


330  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

life  out  of  him.  Let  him  die  with  my  face  close  to  his, 
my  eyes  looking  into  his,  my  breath  on  his  lips — then  I  '11 
tell  him  who — what  I  am ;  describe  to  him  my  long  life  of 
wounded  sensibilities  that  would  not  grow  callous. 
Then—" 

In  his  blind  anger  he  runs  against  the  iron  wicket, 
bringing  out  the  portress — a  blear-eyed,  toothless  woman, 
who  unlocks  the  gate,  and  he  walks  rapidly  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  palace.  As  he  arrives  within  sight  of  his 
destination,  he  notices  a  coach  drawn  by  four  black 
horses,  being  driven  toward  him.  The  next  moment  he 
observes  a  ragged  fellow  toss  a  letter  through  the  window, 
Philip's  face  appearing  at  the  same  instant.  He  mutters : 
"Wharton!  strange!  The  coach  is  loaded  down  with 
trunks  and  bags  as  if  he  intends  to  leave  us ;  I  must  let 
his  eminence  know  of  this." 

Let  us  glance  into  the  coach.  The  letter  thrown  in  is 
on  the  floor,  rumpled  and  torn.  Stooping  and  picking  it 
up,  Nora  inquires :  "  May  I  read  it,  Philip  ?" 

"  Yds,  if  you  choose,"  he  replies. 

Throwing  it  down  after  a  hasty  perusal,  she  exclaims  : 
"  What  a  field  in  which  to  gather  fame  !  The  eyes  of  the 
world  are  turned  on  this  coming  contest!" 

He  replies :  "  It  is  anonymous !  A  friend  seldom  con 
ceals  himself,  an  enemy  almost  invariably !" 

"/  think  this  is  from  a  friend,  who,  being  aware  of 
your  talents  and  ambition,  is  desirous-  of  pointing  out  the 
way,  while  fearing  lest  you  might  dislike  his  officious- 
ness." 

"  Probably.  However,  friend  or  enemy,  the  suggestion 
suits  me  exactly.  We  will  stop  at  the  next  cabaret, 
then  I  will  write  to  las  Torres,  offering  him  my  ser 
vices  at  Gibraltar.  We  can  go  by  sea  to  Barcelona, 
thence  to  the  scene  of  action." 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  331 

Nora  replies :  "  Would  it  not  be  better  to  write  to  his 
majesty  that  you  design  to  take  arms  in  his  service  ?" 
"  I  will  do  so,  Nora ;  your  advice  is  opportune." 
"  Of  course,  you  will  await  his  majesty's  answer  ?" 
"  Not  at  all ;  we  shall  continue  on  our  route.    I  am 
sure  that  he  will  gladly  accede  to  my  proposal.     Las 
Torres  is  the  commandant,  I  believe ;  he  will  doubtless 
carry  on  the  siege  with  credit  and  success." 
"  If  you  help  him,  he  could  not  do  otherwise." 
"  I  would  that  others  could  appreciate  my  talents  as 
well  as  you,  Nora,"  he  replies,  thinking  with  regret  on 
his  cool  reception  at  Rome.  ^4  % 

"  Force  them  to  appreciate  you ;  show  yourself  to  the 
world  in  your  true  colors  as  a  loyal,  talented  commander." 
He  does  not  answer  her.  He  is  thinking  of  the  dar 
ing  deeds  he  will  accomplish  in  the  trenches,  of  the  brave 
show  he  will  make  in  his  Spanish  uniform,  which,  he  has 
determined,  shall  be  violet  with  pearl  facings,  and  gold 
lace ;  colors  harmonizing  well  with  his  complexion,  which 
he  keeps  clear  and  fresh  with  an  unguent  used  by  Mile. 
Paris  Duvernay. 


CHAPTER  LIY. 

"For  who  could  be  blind  to  so  brilliant  a  star?" 

CONDE  DE  LAS  TORRES  is  commandcr-in-chief  of  the 
army  before  Gibraltar ;  his  aide-de-camp  is  the  Duke  of 
Wharton,  Who  has  come  hither  prepared  to  draw  his 
sword  and  fight  against  his  mother  country.  Nora  is 
also  here,  not  liking  to  leave  him  alone  for  reasons  of 
her  own.  Not  caring  to  await  an  answer  to  his  letter 
from  the  king,  he  has  come  at  once  to  the  camp.  Fortu- 


332  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

nately  or  unfortunately,  his  majesty's  letter  has  preceded 
him,  appointing  him  to  the  before-mentioned  position, 
an  office  of  trust  and  danger.  It  is  a  position,  moreover, 
in  which  his  name  is  sure  to  be  blazoned  abroad. 

The  Marquis  de  Yerboom  and  Don  Lucas  Spinola  are 
part  of  the  staff,  although  they  are  both  greatly  opposed 
to  the  siege,  while  Philip  and  las  Torres  are  in  favor  of 
its  continuance.  General  Gaspar  Clayton  is  in  command 
of  the  Rock,  which  is  feebly  defended  inside,  but  sup 
ported  by  a  powerful  fleet  standing  at  anchor  under  the 
precipitous  walls.  From  the  summit  of  the  Promontory 
can  be  seen  the  tiny  huts  of  the  Catalonian  fishermen  far 
down  on  the  sparkling,  crested  beach.  To  the  Occident, 
Barbary's  fierce  shores  protrude  their  beetling  crags,  and 
barren  Mons  Abyla  rises  boldly  against  the  horizon. 

Las  Torres  has  systematically  proceeded  in  his  hostile 
approaches.  Besides  throwing  up  formidable  trenches, 
he  has  erected  many  outposts,  and  excavated  numerous 
mines.  His  batteries  sweep  every  penetrable  point,  also 
commanding,  in  a  measure,  the  waters  of  the  bay.  A 
large  detachment  is,  at  present,  stationed  on  the  beach 
at  Genoese  Cove,  while  the  trenches  are  filled  with  watch 
ful  troops. 

Philip  is  at  headquarters  with  de  Montemar  and 
the  rest  of  the  staff,  who  have  decided  that  the  new  bat 
teries  are  to  open  on  the  besieged  at  once.  The  decision 
has  been  arrived  at  only  after  great  discussion,  during 
which  Philip  gave  many  important  suggestions.  At  his 
urgent  solicitations  his  grace  is  given  the  command  of 
o  ie  of  the  attacking  detachments. 

Orders  are  given  to  the  artillerymen,  •  the  troops 
placed  in  position,  guns  inspected,  swords  loosened, 
weak  points  anxiously  scanned,  and  strong  positions 
approved.  The  besieged,  seeing  the  preparations  for  an 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          333 

assault,  hurriedly  busy  themselves  in  strengthening  their 
defences  with  sand  bags  and  butts  bound  with  fascines. 

All  are  in  a  state  of  great  expectancy ;  every  man  is 
at  his  gun,  matchlocks  lighted,  sponge  and  rammer 
ready.  All  are  awaiting,  yet  dreading  the  first  BOOM, 
telling  the  deadly  batteries  have  begun  their  work.  De 
Montemar  says  to  las  Torres :  "  Saint  Jago !  I  am  ter 
ribly  anxious  about  the  power  and  effect  of  our  guns !" 

"  Montemar,  you  are  nervous — excited.  I  will  give  the 
signal  as  soon  as  Spinola  returns  from  his  inspection  of 
the  Land^ Port  wall?" 

Yerboom  inquires :  "  Conde,  how  many  balls  and  shells 
can  we  throw  into  the  fortress  a  day  ?" 

"  Seven  hundred  per  hour !"  is  the  concise  answer. 

Brightening  at  the  estimate,  he  turns  to  Philip,  saying, 
"  That  gives  me  more  hope ;  I  begin  to  think  it  even  pro 
bable  that  we  may  succeed." 

Philip  replies  in  a  chiding  manner:  "  My  dear  marquis, 
before  to-morrow  we  will  have  Gaspar  Clayton  begging 
for  a  respite,  sending  us  their  surrender.  As  my  coun 
trymen,  I  expect  las  Torres  will  so  far  favor  me  as  to 
allow  them  to  march  out  with  the  honors." 

"  The  Virgin  defend  us  from  such  a  fate  at  all  events." 

Spinola,  galloping  up  at  this  moment,  delivers  a  field 
glass  to  las  Torres,  saying,  in  quick,  hurried  accents : 
"  The  enemy  have  erected  a  strong  battery  at  the  Moorish 
castle,  while  the  Jews  are  so  helpless  and  cowardly,  that 
it  is  impossible  to  make  them  work  at  the  trenches  I  A 
detachment  should  be  sent  at  once,  for  the  enemy's  ves 
sels  are  decimating  our  troop  in  a  terrible  manner! 
They  are  entirely  unprotected,  and  are  rapidly  losing  all 
courage  and  vigor." 

Las  Torres,  startled  at  the  news,  exclaims  in  a  loud 
voice :  "  To  your  posts,  gentlemen !  the  atteck  must  be 
made  at  once!  Your  grace,  much  depends  upon  your 


334  HIMSELF    HIS  WORST   ENEMY  J 

coolness!  Spinola,  be  wary — not  too  impetuous!  Ki- 
badeo,  recollect  we  are  Spaniards ;  the  Rock  must  be 
ours.  Away  1  in  two  minutes  I  will  give  the  signal  to 
open  the  batteries !  Then,  sweeping  them  from  north  to 
south — east  to  west,  we  will  teach  these  heretics  that 
Gibraltar  can  be  taken."  Turning  to  Spinola,  who  still 
lingers,  he  cries :  "  Away !  I  will  attend  to  the  trenches 
immediately — curse  the  Jews!"  Calling  a  captain  of 
cavalry  standing  a  few  yards  away,  he  continues :  "  Se 
nor  Juan,  take  fifty  men  to  the  trenches,  throw  them  up 
as  quickly  'as  possible,  and  stay  there  until  you  receive 
further  commands." 

Sinking  on  his  knees  behind  a  low  parapet,  las  Torres 
prays :  "  Santa  Maria,  grant  us  victory ;  we  fight  against 
heretics — "  Stopping  short,  he  exclaims :  "  Maldito !  I 
have  neither  time  nor  words  for  prayer !"  walking  hastily 
toward  the  officer  of  the  batteries,  he  exclaims :  "Senor, 
open  all  your  batteries — pour  in  shot  and  shell  unceas 
ingly,  until  further  orders.  Inform  Senor  Perilas,  so 
that  in  case  you  are  struck  there  will  be  no  confusion  or 
stoppage." 

"  Yes,  general." 

Glancing  around  at  the  disposal  of  his  forces,  las  Tor 
res'  face  brightens  with  satisfaction  at  the  commanding 
positions  in  which  his  troops  are  stationed. 

BOOM ! — ah,  how  terrible  is  the  long  line  of  lurid 
flame !  how  deafening  the  appalling  echoes  shaking  earth 
and  sky!  Showers  of  shell  and  chain-shot,  grape  and 
shrapnel  whizz  singing  through  the  air,  while  the  black 
smoke  puffs  slowly  up  from  the  belching  embrasures. 
The  firing  is  very  effective,  dismounting  the  guns  of  the 
besieged  faster  than  they  can  be  replaced,  while  the 
courageous  defenders  are  torn  to  pieces,  endeavoring  to 
repair  the  shattered,  crumbling  ramparts  from  which 
whole  tons  of  earth  and  masonry  are  constantly  detached 


OE,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  335 

by  the  rapid  firing.  Their  sand-bags  and  butts  are 
swept  away  like  chaff,  while  their  poor  ordnance  is 
almost  unable  to  reply,  being  old  and  defective. 

Philip,  receiving  an  order  to  make  a  sortie  on  a  strong 
outpost,  whence  the  besieged  are  harassing  Spinola's 
troops  with  deadly  effect,  hoarsely  cheers  at  the  wel 
come  news.  Hastily  forming  his  men  into  line,  he  tells 
them  what  must  be  done.  Placing  himself  at  their  head 
with  his  sword  drawn,  his  hat  off,  and  face  aflame  with 
joy  and  excitement,  he  boldly  advances.  Far  outstrip 
ping  his  men,  he  pauses  a  moment,  but  unable  to  restrain 
his  impetuosity  he  again  rushes  forward.  At  this  mo 
ment  there  is  a  fresh  volley  from  the  Rock,  the  bullets 
and  shells  singing  about  him  in  a  dangerous  chorus. 
Still  he  advances,  pointing  with  his  sword  to  the  outpost. 
Suddenly  with  a  thud  and  a  hiss  a  shell  falls  at  his  very 
feet.  Starting  back,  he  looks  in  alarm  at  the  sputtering 
fuze  rapidly  being  consumed  ;  fascinated  by  the  sight,  he 
is  rooted  to  the  spot.  A  loud  report — a  blinding  glare, 
a  sound  of  missies  whistling  through  the  air,  and  the 
smoke  hides  him  from  view. 

Rushing  wildly  to  the  spot,  his  soldiers  lift  and  bear 
out  his  lifeless  body.  His  face  is  blackened  and  singed, 
his  clothes  torn  to  fragments,  while  one  of  his  legs  is 
shattered  and  maimed.  A  loud  cry  bursts  from  the  men 
at  the  sight,  Philip's  generosity  and  bravery  having 
endeared  him  to  their  hearts.  Carrying  him  swiftly  to 
headquarters,  they  approach  las  Torres,  who  exclaims 
anxiously :  "  Is  he  dead  ?"  They  only  point  to  his  face. 
With  a  quivering  lip  the  general  directs  them  to  the 
tent.  Carrying  him  thither,  they  lay  him  gently  on  the 
bed.  A  physician  is  Immediately  summoned,  and  an 
order  sent  to  the  priest  to  attend  the  dying  man. 

The  physician,  Senor  Arsenicato  ent.ering,  is  surprised 
to  find  his  patient  sitting  erect  in  bed,  rubbing  his  face 


336  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

in  a  bewildered  manner,  meanwhile  muttering  curses  in 
Spanish  and  English.  Laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
he  persuades  him  to  lie  down  again. .  Examining  his  leg, 
after  cleansing  off  the  blood  and  dirt,  he  finds  the  wound 
is  not  of  a  dangerous  character ;  the  shock  of  the  explo 
sion  had  stunned  him,  while  a  piece  of  the  shell  had  torn 
open  his  ankle;  otherwise  he  is  uninjured.  CarefuUy 
bandaging  the  ankle,  he  pats  him  on  the  back,  saying 
encouragingly:  "  Bueno,  bueno  I  your  grace,  we  will  soon 
cure  you ;  but  you  must  not  attempt  to  leave  your  bed 
until  we  permit  you  I" 

Philip  replies :  "  Why,  man,  think  you  I  could  lie  here 
all  day,  hearing  the  guns  outside,  and  repose  idly  on  my 
back?  No  I" 

Arsenicato,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  looks  incredu 
lously  at  him.  "Bueno!  but  first  take  this  little  draught ; 
it  is  harmless,  and  will  steady  your  nerves." 

Pouring  two  or  three  drops  of  a  white  liquid  from  a 
small  phial,  he  mixes  them  in  a  glass  of  wine.  Philip 
swallows  the  potion  at  a  gulp,  his  eyes  close  almost  imme 
diately,  his  head  falls  back  on  the  pillow,  and  he  is  asleep. 
"  Your  grace  is  secure  enough  now !  A  good  sleep  is  his 
best  restorer."  Throwing  a  mosquito  net  over  him,  the 
wily  doctor  returns  to  his  other  duties. 

On  awakening  the  next  morning  Philip  is  nearly  suffo 
cated  with  the  strong  smell  of  powder  filling  the  tent 
with  a  blue,  acrid  vapor.  Rapidly  dressing  himself,  he 
almost  forgets  his  wound,  until  he  attempts  to  draw  on 
his  shoe,  the  consequent  pain  makes  him  wince  and 
groan ;  limping  outside,  las  Torres  surveys  him  in  sur 
prise,  congratulating  him,  however,  on  his  rapid  recovery. 

"Where  is  my  detachment,  Conde?" 

"  It  is  at  present  incorporated  with  Spinola's,  whose 
troop  has  been  frightfully  thinned." 

"He  must  return  them  to  me  now,  and  I  hope  I  shall 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S  CAEEEB.          331 

fulfil  more  creditably  the  next  order  I  am  fortunate 
enough  to  receive  1" 

"  That  would  be  impossible,  your  grace." 

"Flattery,  Conde,  flattery;  however,  it  could  not  be 
helped."  After  a  pause  he  resumes:  "I  neglected  to 
inquire,  have  you  sent  the  duchess  to  the  rear  ?" 

"  Still  further  away.  It  is  possible  we  shall  have  to 
raise  the  siege,  so  last  night  I  went  to  her  grace's  apart 
ments,  told  her  of  your  accident,  whereat  she  was  greatly 
affected — and  sent  her  to  Madrid  under  the  protection  of 
a  strong  guard  of  Yalloons." 

"  Thanks  ;  it  is  better  she  should  be  away.  Did  her 
grace  ask  to  see  me  before  she  went  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  she  entered  headquarters,  but  you  were 
asleep.  Not  daring  to  violate  Arsenicato's  orders  by 
awakening  you,  she  kissed  you  good-bye;  she  was 
greatly  moved  at  the  sight  of  your  wound." 

"  When  is  it  probable  the  siege  will  be  raised,  Conde  ?" 

"  To-morrow,  unless  reinforcements  arrive  to-night,  an 
almost  impossible  event  I" 

Philip  sighs  as  he  thinks  over  the  misfortune  prevent 
ing  him  from  gaming  honor  and  glory  by  leading  a  for 
lorn  hope  against  the  stubborn  fortress. 

Ordering  his  staff  to  assemble  at  headquarters,  las 
Torres  enters  the  tent,  where  he  is  soon  followed  by 
Philip,  De  Montemar,  Verboom,  and  others.  No  sooner, 
however,  is  the  project  of  raising  the  siege  broached, 
than  Philip  glides  noiselessly  outside,  while  a  smile  is 
playing  on  his  features. 

"  I  am  of  no  use  there !  Moreover,  there  is  little 
honor  in  advising  on  a  surrender,  so  that  I  am  better 
here  than  there !  Besides,  if  my  opinion  were  needed,  I 
should  undoubtedly  be  against  retreat  1  Moloch  is  more 
to  my  taste  than  Belial!  I  want  action — action,  and, 
egad !  I  '11  have  action." 
29 


338  HIMSELF  HIS  WORST  ENEMY; 

Securing  his  hat  on  his  head,  he  cautiously  lowers  himself 
over  the  parapet  to  the  ground.  Drawing  his  rapier,  he 
walks  slowly  toward  the  walls  near  one  of  the  hostile 
posts,  meanwhile  between  the  opposing  fires,  whose  va 
rious  missiles  whirr  and  sing  above  and  about  him.  Pro 
ceeding  until  within  talking  distance  of  the  outpost,  he 
halts,  and  exclaims  in  a  loud  voice:  "Halloo  within 
there,  cuckoldy  heretics  !"* 

In  answer  to  this  polite  greeting,  a  dozen  muskets  are 
levelled  at  him,  while  a  stern  voice  replies :  "  Who  goes 
there  ?  Advance,  and  give  the  password !" 

Philip  drawls :  "  Demme,  sir,  your  voice  is  as  harsh  as 
any  peacock's.  In  reply  to  your  excessively  rude  sum 
mons,  allow  me  to  introduce  myself.  The  Duke  of 
Wharton  and  Northumberland,  officer  in  his  most  Cath 
olic  majesty's  service." 

There  is  a  few  moments'  silence  after  this,  until  the 
same  voice  replies :  "  If  your  grace  will  promise  to  re 
turn  immediately  to  camp,  you  will  be  allowed  that  privi 
lege  in  consideration  of  your  high  rank  and  youthfulness, 
otherwise  I  will  order  your  arrest  as  a  spy  and  a  traitor  I 
Your  grace  is  aware  of  the  laws  of  war,  I  presume?" 

Slowly  drawing  out  his  handkerchief,  Philip  says: 
"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  return ;  but  one  moment,  my 
dear  fellow ! — oblige  me  by  reporting  this  affair  to  Clay 
ton,  so  that  my  friends  in  England  will  know  that  I  am 
alive !  Au  revoir,  mes  cochons  !  We  will  batter  your 
boasted  fortress  to  the  ground  to-morrow.  His  majesty 
has  just  sent  us  enough  material  for  a  dozen  more  bat 
teries  as  heavy  or  heavier  than  those  we  have,  au  revoir!" 

A  dead  silence  greets  this  intelligence,  while  the  rising 
moon  illuminates  the  threatening  barrels  directed  towards 
bis  breast.  Retracing  his  steps  he  opens  the  door  of  the 

*  Fact.     See  various  histories. 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.          339 

tent,  inquiring :  "  Well,  gentlemen,  how  goes  the  verdict 
— a  raising  or  a  continuance  ?" 

Las  Torres  replies  gloomily  :  "  Suspension  of  hostili 
ties." 

Philip  answers :  "  Ah  !  If  that  is  the  case,  I  will  re 
turn  at  once  to  Madrid.  This  nitrous  smoke  is  utterly 
spoiling  my  voice ;  I  shall  be  as  hoarse  as  Walpole  if  I 
stay  here  any  longer !"  So  saying,  he  withdraws  to  his 
own  quarters  to  make  preparations  for  leaving. 


CHAPTER  LY. 

"  His  passion  still,  to  covet  general  praise, 
'    Hia  lips  to  forfeit  it  a  thousand  ways  ; 

A  constant  bounty  which  no  friend  has  made ; 
An  angel  tongue  which  no  man  can  persuade ; 
A  fool  with  more  of  wit  than  all  mankind : 
loo  rash  for  thought,  for  action  too  refined." 

POPE'S  "  WHABTOH." 

JAMES  is  reclining  in  his  chair  looking  ill  and  tired ;  in 
front  of  him  stands  Edgely  Valentin,  bare  headed  and 
respectful. 

"  You  say  that  las  Torres  has  raised  the  siege,  and 
retreated  ?" 

"  Yes,  your  majesty." 

"  Who  informed  you  of  the  reckless  acts  of  which  you 
accuse  his  grace?" 

"  A  trustworthy  witness,  your  majesty.  'Tis  a  pity  he 
was  not  in  England  instead  of  at  the  trenches." 

Frowning  angrily,  James  replies :  "  That  is  for  us  to 
say.  However,  this  mad  fool  must  return  to  England ; 
he  is  doing  us  more  harm  than  good  with  his  audacity, 
immorality,  and  want  of  respect  to  his  king.  We  would 


340  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

almost  rather  deal  with  him  as  an  enemy  than  a  friend ; 
he  would  certainly  do  us  less  harm.  'Tis  a  great  pity, 
too ;  he  has  both  talent  and  ability,  but  it  is  seldom  he 
exerts  them  ;  in  such  cases,  it  is  too  often  to  circumvent 
a  grisette  or  rob  a  friend  at  piquet  or  ombre."  After  a 
slight  pause:  "Where  is  his  duchess — the  lovely  Nora?" 

"  Her  grace  is  with  him  at  Madrid,  your  majesty." 

Looking  suspiciously  at  him,  James  inquires :  "  How 
is  it,  sirrah,  that  you  are  always  so  well  instructed  -in 
the  incomings  and  outgoings  of  his  grace  ?  For  a  rather 
cool  friend  you  appear  to  take  a  pretty  deal  of  interest 
in  him!" 

Edgely  replies  with  downcast  eyes :  "  It  is  for  your 
majesty's  sake  that  I  am  watchful ;  for,  as  your  majesty 
has  said,  he  does  more  harm  to  the  cause  I  love — the 
king  I  adore — than  many  of  our  enemies." 
.  Mollified  by  his  assertions,  James  permits  him  to  kiss 
his  hand,  replying,  with  a  smile:  "We  did  but  jest. 
How  likes  our  consort  her  residence  in  gloomy  St. 
Cecilia?" 

"  Not  over  well,  your  majesty ;  Madame  is  often  trou 
bled  with  the  vapors.  She  would  willingly  return,  but  for 
her  aversion  to  several  at  court." 

"Truly,  truly!  my  Lady  Inverness  for  one,"  he 
pettishly  replies,  twisting  the  rings  on  his  fingers. 

Ringing  a  bell,  the  signal  is  answered  by  a  page,  who 
stands  on  the  threshold,  bowing  low. 

"  Curlle,  say  to  my  Lord  Inverness  that  we  desire  an 
audience." 

Resting  his  chin  on  his  palm,  James  silently  muses  on 
an  apparently  vexatious  and  perplexing  subject;  Yal- 
entin  remaining  quiet  and  motionless.  Inverness  enter 
ing  bends  and  kisses  the  royal  hand,  which  ceremony 
being  completed,  James  says :  "  Inverness,  we  need  your 
aid  in  a  matter  nearly  concerning  our  beloved  court. 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  341 

Doubtless  you  have  heard  ere  this  of  his  grace  of  Whar- 
ton's  doings  before  Gibraltar  ?  Those  actions  reflect  on 
us  very  severely.  Having  formerly  looked  kindly  on 
him,  therefore  we -have  resolved  to  send — " 

A  tap  at  the  door  interrupting  him,  Valentin  opens  it, 
and  Curlle  enters  with  a  letter  for  James.  Examining 
ihe  seal,  he  exclaims :  "  By  my  soul,  it  is  from  the  mad 
cap  himself  1" 

Valentin,  starting  forward,  turns  red  and  pale  alter 
nately. 

Inverness  mutters :  "  Speak  of  the  deil ! — "  Opening 
the  letter  James  reads  in  low,  almost  undistinguishable 
tones :  "  Your  majesty— um — um — regret  my  culpable  be 
havior  in  leaving  Rome  so  suddenly  and  disrespectfully — 
um — not  knowing  whether  your  majesty  approves  my 
recent  actions  in  the  trenches — um — I  write  to  crave 
permission  to  return  to  Rome — um — um — sun  myself — 
your  majesty's  favor — um — your  loving,  devoted — " 

Frowning  impatiently  he  throws  the  letter  down,  ex 
claiming  :  "  Inverness,  bring  me  paper  and  a  quill  1  The 
malapert  asks  our  approval  of  his  conduct;  he  shall 
have  it,  with  a  moral  affixed,  pardieu!"- 

A  smile  of  gratified  malice  passes  like  a  flash  over  Val 
entin's  face. 

Dipping  into  the  inkstand  with  a  vicious  jerk,  James 
splashes  the  drops  about  in  close  proximity  to  Inverness' 
peach-colored  hose,  murmuring  as  he  writes  the  following 
reply  :— 

"  SIR  :  We  blame  you  severely  for  your  ill-considered 
conduct  in  taking  up  foreign  arms  against  our  king 
dom.  As  our  court  is  at  present  full  to  overflowing,  we 
do  advise  you  most  strenuously  not  to  come  hither,  but 
rather  return  to  England,  condone  your  numerous 
offences,  and  act  a  part  more  useful  to  us  and  yourself. 

JAMES  REX." 
29* 


342  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

"  But  that  it  were  high  presumption  in  me,  I  would 
gladly  sign  my  name  under  your  majesty's." 

"We  know  that,  Inverness.  You  were  always  our 
true  friend  and  adviser."  Yalentin,  lifting  his  eyebrows, 
smiles  incredulously.  James  continues  :  "  This  must  to 
Wharton  at  once,  or  he  may  forestall  our  refusal  of  his 
company  by  coming  upon  us  unawares." 

Inverness,  laughing  low,  expresses  his  appreciation  of 
the  jest  by  divers  nods  and  chuckles. 

Sealing  the  letter,  James  hands  it  to  Yalentin,  enjoin 
ing  him  to  use  the  greatest  despatch  in  its  delivery ;  he 
replies:  "Under  favor,  your  majesty,  none  could  use 
greater." 

Giving  his  arm  to  Inverness,  James  replies :  "  Ay !  we 
know  your  loyalty,  Sir  Edgely." 

Bowing  low,  Yalentin  leaves  to  execute  his  commis 
sion  ;  while  James  and  Inverness  retire  to  the  queen's 
chamber,  where  a  number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  are 
engaged  in  playing  ombre  or  conversing. 

****** 

In  a  large  room  at  Madrid  are  Philip  and  Nora ;  he  is 
alternately  writing  and  reading.  Leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  he  says :  "  Attention,  Nora !  '  To  his  excellency  Mr. 
Walpole' — I  will  give  only  portions  of  the  letter,  those 
most  interesting — '  Sir :  You  will  doubtless  be  surprised 

to  receive  a  letter  from  me. Since  his  present  majesty's 

accession  to  the  throne,  I  have  absolutely  refused  to  be 
concerned  with  the  Pretender  or  any  of  his  affairs ;  and 
during  my  stay  here  I  have  behaved  myself  in  a  manner 
that  Dr.  Peters,  Mr.  Godolphin,  and  Mr.  Mills  can  de 
clare  to  be  consistent  with  my  duty  to  the  present  king. 
I  was  forced  to  come  here  to  get  out  of  Rome,  where,  if 
my  true  design  had  been  known,  I  would  have  been 
treated  a  little  severely.- If  your  excellency  would  per 
mit  me  to  wait  upon  you  for  an  hour,  I  am  certain  you 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  343 

would  be  convinced  of  my  repentance  for  my  former 
madness.' "  Stopping  here,  he  laughs  long  and  loudly, 
while  Nora  appears  perturbed  and  displeased.  "  Egad, 
how  he  will  stare  !  ah-ha !  But  to  proceed :  '  If  you 
would  become  an  advocate  with  his  majesty  to  grant  me 

his  most  gracious  pardon' ahem !  '  I  do  not  intend, 

in  case  of  the  king's  allowing  me  to  pass  the  evening  of  my 
days  under  his  royal  protection,  to  see  England  for  some 
years,  but  shall  remain  in  France  or  Germany,  as  my 
friends  shall  advise,  and  enjoy  country  sports  and  pas 
times'  (his  lips  curve  in  a  smile)  '  till  all  former  stories 
are  buried  in  oblivion.  I  beg  of  your  excellency  to  let 
me  receive  your  orders  at  Paris.  The  duchess,  who  is 
with  me,  desires  leave  to  wait  on  Mrs.  Walpole,  if  you 
think  proper.' " 

Nora  exclaims  indignantly  :  "  Why,  Philip,  you  seem 
very  desirous  of  lowering  your  dignity,  in  addressing 
this  Mr.  Walpole  so  servilely,  begging  so  humbly  the 
favor  of  being  allowed  to  see  him.  He  may  be  an  am 
bassador,  but  you  are  the  Duke  of  Wharton  and  North 
umberland,  and  should  be  above  truckling  to  any  man 
alive  1" 

"  Or  woman  either,  Nora  ;  put  a  bridle  on  your  tongue 
and  let  me  alone.  I  have  been  too  long  in  this  world, 
querida  mia,  not  to  know  how  to  talk  to  ambassadors, 
or  kings  either,  for  that  matter." 

She  is  silent.  Walking  up  and  down  the  room  for  a  few 
minutes,  he  resumes  in  a  decisive  manner :  "  Nora,  you 
must  be  ready  to  set  out  for  Paris  the  day  after  to-mor 
row.  I  will  give  the  letter  time  enough  to  reach  Wal 
pole,  and  then  for  plans  to  upset  the  Captain  King !" 

"  And  assist  the  English  whigs !"  Nora  adds. 

"  An  entire  mistake.  It  is  our  mutual  party  which 
shall  reap  the  advantages  of  my  sojourn  in  Paris,  as 
you  will  see.  James  declines  my  company  at  court, 


344  HIMSELF.  HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

therefore  I  must  work  for  him  in  exile.  His  letter  was 
vastly  curt  and  impolite !  The  Jesuits  declare  that  the 
end  justifies  the  means ;  on  that  axiom  I  base  my  con 
duct." 

"  Debase  it  sometimes,  I  fear,  Philip." 

Unheeding  her  remark,  Philip  inquires  abstractedly: 
"  How  stands  our  exchequer,  Nora  ?" 

"  Low,  much  lower  than  you  probably  think." 

Shrugging  his  shoulders,  he  replies :  "  Low  enough,  no 
doubt !  I  have  not  received  my  usual  remittance  from 
London." 

"  That  is  not  the  chief  cause  of  its  depletion,  Philip 
dear ;  it  is  because  you  spend  your  money  so  foolishly, 
buy  everything  you  see,  give  to  every  one  who  asks,  and 
squander  it  at  the  gaming  table !" 

"  Hoity-toity,  a  lecture  on  economy  from  her  Grace  of 
Wharton!  Pray  proceed;  I  am  all  attention  1" 

Half  smiling  at  his  mock  attentive  attitude,  she  turns 
away  and  looks  out  of  the  window,  while  he  surveys  his 
person  in  the  mirror. 


CHAPTEK  LVI. 

"  Saw  mischief  by  a  faction  brewing." 

SWIFT. 

ALTHOUGH  an  inventory  of  their  possessions  disclosed 
the  fact  that  all  their  present  effects  were  about  two  hun 
dred  pounds,  their  clothes,  and  jewelry,  Philip's  high 
ambition  could  not  descend  to  trivial  economies.  Ac 
cordingly,  he  has  engaged  the  most  fashionable  and  ex 
pensive  rooms  in  all  Paris,  decorated  them  anew  with 
rich  furniture,  engaged  a  dozen  or  more  valets,  waiters, 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER,          345 

and  runners,  and  bought  a  superb  coach.  All  this  he 
has  done  on  credit  and  the  influence  of  his  representa 
tions.  "Nora,  alarmed  at  his  vast  expenditures,  dismally 
wondered  whence  would  come  the  money  to  pay  the 
bills  when  they  were  presented.  His  reply  was  a  care 
less  laugh,  and  an  assertion  that  "  he  had  such  an  im 
plicit  reliance  in  Providence,  he  did  not  trouble  himself 
at  all  about  the  future,  but  obeyed  the  precepts  of  the 
Bible,  in  trusting  in  the  Omniscient  not  to  fail  him  in  the 
hour  of  need." 

Walpole's  reply  has  been  received,  being  now  the  sub 
ject  of  their  conversation.  Turning  to  Nora  with  a 
surprised  look,  Philip  replies  in  answer  to  her  previous 
question :  "  Certainly,  our  visit  shall  be  in  a  public  capa 
city.  Why  not  ?  have  you  any  great  objections,  Nora  ?" 

"  Well,  you  know  our  expenses  are  very  great,  and 
with  no  expectation  of  a  remittance  for  some  time,  it 
would  be  as  well  to  retrench  a  little.  We  have  very 
little  left  to  draw  upon,  while  the  bills  for  the  coach, 
horses,  and  the  furniture  will  pour  in  before  long." 

"  Never  mind,  Nora,  we  must  not  meet  trouble  half 
way  !  Ah !  there  is  the  coach !  Come  along !"  Leading 
her  to  the  door,  they  both  enter,  and  roll  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  ambassador's  house. 

Mr.  Walpole,  awaiting  them  in  the  'hall,  courteously 
leads  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  where  they  seat  them 
selves,  partaking  of  a  slight  luncheon  furnished  by  their 
attentive  host.  During  the  repast,  Philip  is  guilty  of 
many  loose  witticisms  and  licentious  puns,  often  causing 
Nora  to  blush  to  her  temples.  The  conversation  is  gene 
ral  and  unimportant,  until  Philip  carelessly  inquires : — 

"  Your  excellency,  is  Atterbury  in  town  ?" 

"  He  is,  your  grace ;  unfortunately,  his  society  is  de 
barred  us.  You  are  aware  that  all  communication  with 
him  is  forbidden  and  felonious  ?" 


3.46  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST  ENEMY; 

Philip  nods  assent,  and  the  conversation  again  becomes 
more  general.  Nora  is  cold  and  distant,  appearing  to 
prefer  her  own  thoughts  to  Walpole's  honeyed  speeches 
and  flattering  words.  Philip,  noticing  this,  says :  "  Well, 
we  must  be  going ;  are  you  ready,  Nora  ?" 

She  replies  in  a  relieved  manner :  "  Yes,  your  grace, 
and  have  been  for  some  time." 

This  pithy  rejoinder  causes  Walpole  to  frown,  while  a 
piqued  expression,  clouds  his  face. 

As  they  are  entering  the  coach,  Philip  calls  out :  "  Oh, 
Walpole,  I  am  going  to  dine  with  the  Bishop  of  Rc=ches- 
ter  now.  What  think  you  of  my  plan  ?  Does  he  keep  a 
good  table?" 

Smiling  at  such  an  odd,  bold  declaration,  Walpole 
replies :  "  If  your  grace  has  a  design  to  pay  that  prelate 
a  visit,  there  is  no  occasion  to  tell  me  of  it." 

"  By  the  way,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  how  I  .enjoyed  my 
self  at  Rome,  also  of  my  conversion  to  Catholicism,  two 
subjects  in  which  you  would  have  been  interested ;  how 
ever,  they  will  be  food  for  conversation  at  our  next 
meeting;  good-bye  1"  Kissing  his  hand  to  the  astonished 
Walpole,  he  slams  the  carriage  door,  and  cries :  "  To  the 
Bishop  of  Rochester's  house!" 

Atterbury  is  both  pleased  and  startled  on  seeing  his 
unexpected  guests,  but  withal  pained  at  Philip's  levity 
and  profaneness,  so  ill  suited  to  his  own  sober  gravity 
and  advanced  age.  With  Nora,  Atterbury  is  well  pleased, 
greatly  admiring  her  beauty  and  vivacity,  which  compare 
curiously  enough  with  her  previous  sullenness  at  Wai- 
pole's.  Although  delighted  with  their  affection  and  de 
votion,  the  Bishop  gently  blames  them  for  incurring  the 
government  penalties  by  holding  any  communication  with 
him,  for  in  this  land  of  strangers,  the  aged,  worn-out 
prelate  is  debarred  from  seeing  a  friend  or  a  relative, 
even  his  loved  daughter  dare  not  come  to  him  to  receive 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  347 

his  caresses  or  to  soothe  him  in  his  sickness  and  loneli 
ness. 

As  they  are  driving  homewards  after  the  interview  is 
over,  Philip  says  in  a  settled  manner:  "Nora,  I  have 
just  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Paris  is  too  expensive 
for  us,  Rouen  will  suit  us  better,  especially  as  I  see  no 
chance  of  a.  remittance  from  home,  and  our  creditors  will 
not  be  always  satisfied  with  smiles  and  promises." 

Lifting  her  hands  in  dismay,  Nora  replies:  "Leave 
Paris!  impossible.  We  have  made  every  arrangement 
for  a  permanent  residence  here ;  rented  the  apartments, 
hired  servants  and  footmen,  bought  carriage  and  horses, 
and  I  know  not  what  besides ;  the  idea  is  absurd."  Add 
ing,  with  a  smile :  "  But  of  course  you  did  not  mean  it, 
for  our  creditors  would  not  allow  us  t$  leave  unless  they 
were  paid." 

He  replies :  "  Nora,  those  people  are  sufficiently  well 
paid  by  our  patronage;  you  appear  to  forget  who  we  are." 

She  rejoins :  "  Pardon  me !  not  at  all ;  but  even  the 
Duke  of  Wharton  will  find  that  Parisian  tradesmen  are 
not  well-bred  enough  to  be  satisfied  with  patronage 
instead  of  payment.  I  know  them  too  well  to  believe 
in  their  forbearance." 

Philip  says  with  a  frown  and  a  pettish  jerk  at  his 
ruffles :  "  Repique  me !  I  care  little  about  their  politeness 
or  charity.  I  am  not  considering  them  at  all.  They 
must  look  out  for  themselves  and  we  will  do  the  same. 
Economy  is  our  aim  at  present." 

She  sighs  at  his  obstinacy,  and  is  about  to  answer  him, 
when  he  adds:  "Nora — your  grace,  no  more  remon 
strances,  I  beg !  I  have  said  Rouen  is  to  be  our  future 
home— Rouen  it  shall  be  until  our  circumstances  guar 
antee  a  residence  in  Paris.  Your  grace  has  become 
strangely  whimsical  and  fantastical  of  late.  Let  me  hope 
you  will  be  a  trifle  more  rational  and  collected  in  your 


348  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

actions  in  future,"  looking  askance  at  him,  she  laughs 
amusedly,  and  settles  herself  in  the  corner  with  a  shrug 
of  her  shoulders  and  a  mocking  gesture  at  Ms  stolid 
gravity. 


CHAPTER  LYII. 

* 

"  He  marks  the  dawn  of  every  virtuous  aim, 
And  fans  the  smoking  flax  into  a  flame." 

STROLLING  about  Rouen  accompanied  by  Nora,  Philip 
observes  a  number  of  ragged,  filthy  vagrants  who  attack 
eveiy  passer-by  for  alms  in  the  most  piteous  manner. 
Toward  this  motley  crew  he  proceeds,  leaving  Nora  to 
await  his  return.  After  satisfying  their  clamorous  de 
mands,  he  exclaims  in  a  loud  voice:  "Brother  vaga 
bonds,  I  am  the  Duke  of  Wharton."  A  piece  of  infor 
mation  eliciting  uproarious  applause.  He  continues  :  "  I 
want  every  one  of  you  to  call  at  my  lodgings  this  even 
ing  at  8  o'clock,  having  prepared  a  supper  for  the  poor 
of  Rouen." 

Giving  his  address  to  them,  he  returns  to  Nora  amid 
renewed  applause  and  cheering.  She  asks :  "  Philip,  what 
is  the  meaning  of  all  the  clamor  ?  I  truly  believe  you 
have  given  those  wretches  half  of  all  our  little  stock, 
much  more  than  we  can  afford  at  any  rate.  However 
worthy  the  objects  of  your  charity,  recollect  that  charity 
begins  at  home !" 

He  rejoins  with  a  significant  laugh :  "  Faith,  it  shall 
begin  at  home,  Nora !" 

At  this  moment  Nora  directs  his  attention  to  a  most 
ludicrous  sight.  In  the  street  stands  a  gay,  fashionable 
coach,  with  open  door,  as  though  its  occupant  had  just 
alighted ;  while  about  twenty  yards  away  are  two  gentle- 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  349 

men  in  most  peculiar  attitudes.  One  is  tall  and  thin, 
but  quick  and  graceful  in  his  movements.  Holding  his 
drawn  sword  in  front  of  him,  he  pricks  his  comrade  be 
hind  with  its  sharp  point ;  meanwhile  his  face  is  a  study 
for  its  gravity  and  immobility.  The  assailed,  who  is  at 
tired  in  white  silk  stockings,  peach-colored  coat  and  small 
clothes,  is  capering  about  as  though  hot  mercury  were 
dancing  in  his  heels,  as  well  he  may ;  with  his  tormentor 
prodding  at  him  so  viciously  behind. 

Nora  cannot  help  but  laugh  at  the  spectacle.  The 
street  being  wet  and  muddy,  every  step  he  takes  he 
splashes  his  whole  person  with  the  thick  ooze.  Philip 
gives  free  vent  to  his  noisy  merriment,  finally  calling  out 
"  A  Wharton,  a  "Wharton  to  the  rescue  I"  Turning 
around  at  this  exclamation,  they  are  both  surprised  to  see 
the  long,  sallow  face  of  the  Earl  of  Peterborough.  This 
diversion  giving  his  victim  time  to  escape,  he  flies  down 
the  street  like  one  mad,  while  the  earl  advances  to  Philip 
and  cordially  salutes  him,  saying :  "  My  dear  Wharton, 
how  ever  have  you  managed  to  be  here  ?" 

"  By  the  same  means  as  yourself,  I  suppose,  Mordanto, 
but — "  He  laughs  again.  "  What  was  the  meaning  of 
your  one-sided  fight?" 

Peterborough  replies:  "Really,  I  scarcely  know  my 
self!   Happening  to  look  out  of  the  window,  I  saw  yonder 
galliard  picking  his  way  over  the  stones  in  a  vastly  lacka 
daisical  manner,  as  though  he  feared  for  his  spotless 
stockings ;  so  I  sprang  out  and  was  teaching  him  a  few 
capers  with  my  Toledo  when  you  interrupted  me." 
"  He  did  not  seem  to  relish  the  lesson  overmuch." 
"  Faith,  no ;  it  did  seem  distasteful  to  him." 
Introducing  the  earl  to  Nora,  Philip  requests  him  to 
go  along  with  them ;  but  he  declines,  excusing  himself 
on  the  score  of  important  business  admitting  of  no 
30 


350  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

delay.  Philip  inquires :  "  What  business  can  you  have 
requiring  such  immediate  attention,  Mordanto  ?" 

"Quills  and  paper,  for  the  construction  of  the  me 
moirs  which  will  to  .a  certainty  convulse  Europe  to  its 
centre." 

"  Memoirs  of  the  Duke  of  Wharton,  for  instance !" 

"  Charles  Mordaunt  rather  1"  adds  Nora,  with  a  smile. 

Philip  replies:  "Join  them;  then  not  only  Europe 
will  be  convulsed,  but  all  the  world,  even  to  that  abode 
of  Pluto— Terra  del  Fuego." 

"Yours  alone  would  be  sufficient,"  replies  Peter 
borough  as  he  sheaths  his  sword  with  a  sharp  click, 
adding :  "  Good-bye  1"  He  raises  his  hat  and  re-enters 
his  coach. 

Punctually  at  eight  o'clock  arrived  the  invited  beggars, 
who  were  met  by  Philip  and  ushered  into  the  dining-room, 
where  Nora  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  "distinguished 
guests"  who  she  had  been  led  to  expect  were  coming. 
The  scene  that  followed  baffles  description.  Nora  rushed 
from  the  room  in  angry  haste,  while  Philip  laughed  aloud 
at  her  discomfiture,  inviting  his  dirty,  ragged  guests  to 
partake  of  the  delicacies  spread  on  the  table.  He  plied 
them  with  wine  until  their  senses  were  inflamed  and  riot 
ous.  Oaths  and  slang,  horrible  tales  and  anecdotes,  the 
jingling  of  broken  goblets  and  cracked  dishes,  combined 
to  make  a  sickening  tumult ;  while  Philip  presided  at  the 
head — a  worthy  Mecsenas  of  the  rabble  herd.  The  only 
apology  I  can  offer  for  Philip's  freak  is  that  "77  a  le 
diable  au  corps." 

On  awakening,  Philip  finds  himself  under  the  table 
amid  bottles,  glasses,  fruits,  preserves,  and  a  mixture  of 
everything  that  had  previously  been  part  of  the  repast. 
Rising  unsteadily  from  his  recumbent  position,  he  retires 
to  his  room  in  a  very  disagreeable  humor,  intending  to 
sleep  off  the  effects  of  the  night's  debauch ;  an  intention 


OR,  PHILIP  DUKE  OF  WHARTON'S  CAREER.          351 

frustrated,  however,  by  the  entry  of  .the  maid  with  a 
letter  for  him,  signed  "  immediate"  on  the  cover.  He 
opens  it  with  a  pettish  air.  Its  contents  fill  him  with  ap 
prehension  and  alarm,  at  the  same  time  opening  his  eyes 
to  the  enormity  of  his  offences  against  the  laws  of  his 
country.  The  document  is  a  succinct  report  of  proceed 
ings  in  Parliament,  concerning  both  his  life  and  property ; 
no  more  nor  less  than  a  motion,  strongly  sustained,  to 
outlaw  him  and  confiscate  all  his  possessions — to  place 
him  on  the  same  footing  as  the  Bishop  of  Rochester.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  letter  is  written  in  a  hurried,  scrawl 
ing  hand :  "  See  your  errors  immediately  on  receipt  of 
this — sue  for  pardon ;  it  is  your  only  chance." 

Bewildered  by  this  ominous  intelligence,  he  calls  for 
Nora.  As  she  enters  he  hands  the  letter  to  her.  After 
reading  it,  she  says  contemptuously :  "  Tut !  the  work 
of  some  lying  Hanoverian,  who  wishes  to  frighten  you 
into  submission  to  the  usurper.  Let  me  tear  it  up." 
Suiting  her  actions  to  her  words,  she  tosses  the  pieces 
into  the  fire. 

After  a  short  silence,  Philip  says :  "  I  believe  you  are 
right,  Nora ;  I  hope  so,  at  all  events." 

"  Certainly,  I  am  right !  If  such  a  measure  had  even 
been  contemplated  at  home,  you  would  have  heard  of  it 
long  before  it  could  be  broached  in  the  house.  Undoubt 
edly,  it  is  a  Whig  scheme  to  induce  you  to  turn  renegade 
and  help  their  schemes  with  your  pen  and  tongue." 

A  tap  at  the  door,  and  the  maid  re-enters — "  Please, 
your  grace,  two  gentlemen  await  your  grace  in  the  parlor, 
Monsieur  Thurton  and  M.  le  Baron  Norfolke." 

Turning  pale,  he  exclaims :  "  Que  diable  I  what  can 
these  countrymen  of  mine  want  with  me?"  Quickly  ar 
ranging  his  disordered  garments,  he  walks  down  stairs 
and  enters  the  room.  "  Good-morrow,  gentlemen,"  he 
says  pleasantly,  and  apologizes  for  keeping  them  waiting. 


352  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

Returning  his  compliments,  the  elder  of  the  two  pre 
sents  him  a  letter  of  introduction  from  Sir  Robert  Wai- 
pole.  Tearing  it  open  he  peruses  it  for  a  moment,  then 
exclaims  haughtily :  "  Advice !  Gentlemen,  Mr.  Walpole 
speaks  of  advice !" 

Baron  Norfolke  replies :  "  Yes,  your  grace,  advice  anent 
recent  acts  in  Parliament  derogatory  to  your  dignity, 
and  prejudicial  to  your  interests." 

Philip,  starting,  says :  "  Ah !  pray  tell  me  all  about 
it ;  this  is  indeed  news !"  and  he  draws  a  chair  close  to 
Norfolke,  who  proceeds  in  an  apologetic,  conciliating 
manner:  "Your  grace  must  not  take  it  ill  if  our  words 
are  sometimes  rather  coarse,  for  the  subject  we  are  about 
to  discuss  is  a  delicate  one,  requiring  plain  speaking  and 
truthful  words.  You  may  or  may  not  be  aware  that 
your  enemies — nay,  even  some  of  your  friends — have, 
on  account  of  your  grace's  recent  actions  at  Gibraltar 
and  Rome,  sustained  a  motion  that  you  be  outlawed, 
and  a  price  set  on  your  head,  besides  the  confiscation  of 
all  your  property  and  revenues  ;  but  Mr.  Walpole,  who 
has  a  real  love  for  your  grace,  prevented  the  awarding 
of  the  exigeant,  and  has  sent  us  hither  to  induce  you 
to  submit  yourself  to  the  government,  and  return  home 
with  a  full  pardon  and  forgiveness  for  all  your  acts.  A 
pardon  you  can  obtain  by  merely  writing  a  letter  to  his 
majesty  or  the  ministry,  with  a  respectful  apology  for 
your  past  conduct,  and  a  promise  of  more  loyal  beha 
vior  in  the  future.  Your  grace  can  thus,  without  other 
trouble,  re-establish  yourself  in  favor,  and  also  have  your 
estates,  revenues^  and  an  enormous  income  free  of  debts 
or  mortgages." 

Looking  at  the  speaker  with  an  expression  of  sarcastic 
hauteur,  Philip  rejoins  :  "  So !  by  merely  turning  traitor 
to  his  most  Catholic  majesty,  and  humbling  myself 
before  all  the  world,  I  can  have  my  own,  as  well  as  in- 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  353 

cur  the  favor  of  your  avaricious  master  George,  eh  ? 
Listen  to  me,  gentlemen  !  You  are  but  the  useful  tools 
of  Mr.  Walpole ;  otherwise  you  should  both  answer  for 
the  insult  you  have  passed  upon  me.  Take  this  message 
back  with  you,  and  tell  it  as  plainly  as  you  have  de 
livered  your  instructions  to  me.  I  '11  see  George  and  his 
whole  ministry  in  perdition  before  I  '11  write  a  word  to 
either,  except  a  cartel  to  any  man  Jsvho  chooses  to  want 
one!" 

Mr.  Thurton  and  the  baron  flinch  under  this  rough 
language.  The  former,  half-rising  from  his  chair,  places 
his  hand  on  his  sword ;  wisely  screening  his  movement, 
however,  Norfolke  forces  him  back  unobserved  by  Philip, 
replying  in  an  injured  manner:  "Your  grace,  we  deeply 
regret  your  anger,  and  are  sorry  you  look  on  \is  with  such 
ill-will.  If  you  will  even  allow  your  secretary  or  valet  to 
write  an  explanation,  we  doubt  not  that  all  can  tee  right 
again."* 

Half-rising,  Philip  replies :  "  Baron,  if  a  pardon  was 
presented  to  me,  I  might  take  it ;  but  I  '11  never  beg  for 
one,  either  personally  or  by  proxy." 

Nora,  entering  at  this  moment,  the  envoys  rise  and 
bow  to  her,  Philip,  turning  his  head  at  the  same  time, 
discerns  the  expression  of  triumph  beaming  on  her  face, 
and  he  shifts  uneasily  in  his  seat.  Looking  spitefully  at 
Thurton  and  Norfolke  she  whispers:  "Be  firm,  Philip 
darling.  King  James  must  and  shall  reward  you  for  the 
test  you  are  undergoing  1  Let  it  be  said  that  you  stood 
where  others  fell.  Be  firm !" 

He  nods  his  head,  while  Norfolke  continues,  in  a  tone 
of  mortification  and  astonishment :  "  Are  we  to  under 
stand  that  your  grace's  decision  is  fixed  and  final  ? — that 
you  will  not  accept  his  majesty's  most  unprecedented 
kindness  ?" 

*  Fact. 
30* 


354  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST    ENEMY; 

"  My  decision  is  final,  gentlemen." 

Opening  his  doublet,  Mr.  Thurton  pulls  forth  a  sealed 
packet,  and  hands  it  to  the  baron,  who  delivers  it  to 
Philip,  saying :  "  Then,  your  grace,  we  have  a  very  pain 
ful  duty  to  perform.  We  will  wait  until  you  have  seen 
the  contents  of  this  packet ;  then  our  sad  errand  will  be 
over,  and  we  must  return  to  England  with  heavier  hearts 
than  we  intended !" 

Opening  the  crackling  folds  with  nervous  fingers,  Philip 
eagerly  peruses  the  letter,  while  Nora  bends  over  his 
shoulder  with  a  pale  face  and  glittering  eyes.  His  eyes 
grow  dim  and  his  head  throbs  as  he  reads  : — 

"  YOUR  GRACE  :  We,  the  trustees  of  your  estates,  are 
tied  up  from  remitting  you  any  more  money  on  account 
of  your  annuity,  by  the  indictment  lately  found  against 
your  gunce.  We  do  therefore  most  strenuously  advise 
you  to  use  your  best  endeavors  to  have  the  proceedings 
stopped." 

Turning  his  head  to  Nora,  he  says  ruefully :  "A  fine 
prospect  ahead,  Nora !  No  remittances,  edict  of  out 
lawry,  and  entire  sequestration  !" 

She  replies,  in  an  eager  voice :  "  His  majesty  will  pro 
vide  for  us,  Philip." 

He  laughs  as  he  says :  "  Faith,  if  he  does  not,  I  shall 
have  to  take  to  scribbling  for  bread,  and  you  to  teaching 
for  butter." 

Turning  to  the  gentlemen,  who  have  been  watching  him 
very  closely,  he  says,  pointing  to  the  letter :  "  Well,  this 
does  not  interest  me  so  vastly!  Have  you  anything 
more  to  say  on  this  disagreeable  topic  ?  If  not,  I  must 
bid  you  good-morning,  gentlemen.  The  duchess  wishes 
me  to  take  her  to  the  cathedral ;  she  is  a  great  admirer 
of  its  peculiar  architecture — the  EARLY  pointed.  While 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  355 

there,  we  also  intend  to  see  the  spot  where  the  head  of 
Coaur  de  Leon  lies  buried." 

Dismissed  with  a  gesture,  the  disappointed  envoys  re 
tire  from  the  room. 

Nora  kisses  Philip  again  and  again,  meanwhile  prais 
ing  him  for  his  heroism  and  loyalty.  Responding  to  her 
caresses,  his  hand  accidentally  touches  a  locket  fastened 
<  to  her  neck.  Taking  hold  of  it,  he  exclaims  laughingly: 
"Whose  portrait,  Nora — an  old  beau's  or  your  own 
sweet  face  ?" 

A  slight  flush  dyes  her  cheeks  as  she  carelessly  an 
swers  :  "  Yes,  it  is  a  former  lover — now  my  husband.  I 
had  it  painted  by  an  Italian  artist  while  we  were  at 
Rome.  He  painted  it  from  memory.  It  is  not  very 
good  ;  however,  it  suits  my  purpose." 

Pressing  the  clasp,  she  shows  him  his  averred  sem 
blance.  At  first  he  casts  a  careless  glance  at  it ;  then 
scans  it  more  closely,  muttering :  "  Curse  me !  'tis  a  better 
portrait  of  Edgely  Valentin  than  of  me!  Who  painted 
it,  did  you  say,  Nora  ?"  he  abruptly  inquires,  while  look 
ing  keenly  at  her. 

Half  turning  her  face,  she  replies :  "  Really,  Philip,  I 
forget  his  name." 

"  How  long  did  it  take  him  to  paint  it  ?" 

"  How  vastly  inquisitive  you  are,  Philip  I  I  forget  the 
precise  minute,  or  you  should  know  with  pleasure." 

"  If  this  was  painted  during  the  short  time  we  resided 
in  Rome,  it  should  be  placed  among  the  wonders  of  the 
world  ;  it  is  extremely  delicate  and  highly  finished ;  he 
must  be  a  very  giant  in  his  art." 

Not  vouchsafing  any  answer,  he  returns  it  to  her,  and 
begins  to  consult  with  himself  on  the  future,  wearily 
wondering  whether  James  will  prove  a  friend  in  the  hour 
of  need. 


356  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY 


CHAPTER  LYIII. 

"  And  what  may  be  the  consequences  of  a  neglect  of  such  opportunities? 
The  succession  of  the  crown  has  but  a  dark  prospect,  another  Dutch 
turn  ma;  make  the  hopes  of  it  ridiculous." 

DEFOE. 

AFTER  the  occurrence  described  in  the  preceding  chap 
ter,  Philip  had  applied  to  James  for  assistance  and  been 
refused,  since  when  he  has  been  wandering  hither  and 
thither  in  search  of  money,  borrowing  from  all  his  friends, 
and  victimizing  easy,  credulous  shopkeepers  with  boasts 
and  promises. 

Nora  is  living  at  St.  Germains,  where  a  kind  relative 
provides  her  with  food  and  clothing.  Hither  has  Philip 
just  arrived  from  Paris,  almost  broken  down  with  ner 
vous  debility  and  sickness,  penniless  and  almost  hope 
less. 

Entering  Nora's  room,  he  embraces  her  affectionately, 
and,  after  inquiring  the  state  of  her  health,  borrows  what 
money  she  possesses  at  present,  and  turns  his  attention 
to  her  several  companions  ;  a  bevy  of  laughing,  vivacious 
court  dames,  who  receive  his  attentive  regards  with  de 
mure  gravity  or  easy  freedom,  according  as  they  are  in 
clined.  In  the  middle  of  the  ensuing  conversation,  while 
merriment  Or  jocund  wit  pervade  every  word  or  look, 
Philip  exclaims  abruptly :  "  Nora — mesdemoiselles — I  am 
going  to  enter  the  convent !  I  have  suddenly  discovered 
that  life  is  a  void,  a  nonentity,  and — " 

Peals  of  laughter  drown  his  words,  while  all  are 
amused  beyond  measure  at  his  antithetical  words.  How- 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.          351 

ever,  keeping  a  calm  countenance  until  quiet  is  restored, 
he  resumes,  in  a  steady  voice: — 

"  I  am  in  earnest,  as  you  will  see.  Life  is  only  for  the 
gay,  the  wealthy,  the  happy.  I  am  miserable,  poverty- 
stricken,  and  afflicted.  I  feel  that  my  years  are  few  and 
numbered ;  and  it  would  be  far  better  if  those  few  years 
were  dedicated  to  my  Maker,  than  to  the  trifles  which 
have  heretofore  depraved  and  demoralized  me."  Slowly 
rising,  he  leaves  the  room  without  another  word,  while 
his  companions  wonder  whether  he  is  drunk  or  crazy. 

Walking  down,  the  stairs  with  measured  step,  he  opens 
the  door,  and  stands  irresolutely  on  the  stone  steps. 
Raising  his  hands  he  exclaims  in  a  -passionate  voice: 
"Holy  Mary,  look  down  on  me!  Blot  out  my  whole 
life,  with  its  schemes  and  villanies  I  They  are  ever  be 
fore  my  eyes,  ever  festering  in  my  breast  I"  He  pauses 
to  cast  a  glance  about  him,  while  his  hands  are  tightly 
clenched  and  trembling.  "  What  a  life  it  has  been ! 
scarce  a  commandment  I  have  not  broken  from  the  first 
.to  the  last.  Would  the  remnant  of  my  years  passed  in 
prayer  and  meditation  be  a  fit  condonation  ?  I  fear  not ! 
Mother  of  Christ,  have  pity  on  me  1" 

Sinking  on  his  knees  with  a  stifled  sob,  he  covers  his 
face  with  his  hands,  while  he  murmurs  a  broken  prayer 
to  the  God  he  has  so  often  offended.  In  a  short  time  he 
rises  and  walks  toward  the  Convent  de  Notre  Dame. 
Arriving  at  his  destination,  he  sounds  the  heavy  knocker, 
and  requests  admittance.  "I  am  Philip  Wharton." 

Silently  ushering  him  in,  the  brother  signs  him  to  wait, 
while  he  informs  the  father  superior  of  the  arrival.  The 
superior  is  a  tall,  bony  man,  whose  pale,  ascetic  face  tells 
how  faithfully  he  practises  the  penances  and  severities  of 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  monkish  orders. 

With  lowered  face  and  beating  heart,  Philip  awaits  his 
welcome.  The  superior  enunciates  in  clear,  stern  words, 


358  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

that  have  no  ring  of  kindliness  or  encouragement  in 
them :  "  My  son,  what  seekest  thou  ?" 

"  Most  holy  father,  I  would  leave  the  world  and  retire 
into  a  seclusion  where  I  could  direct  my  thoughts,  my 
life  solely  to  Him." 

"  It  is  well.  Knowest  thou  the  rules  of  our  order  ?" 
Drawing  a  roll  of  parchment  from  his  bosom,  he  pushes 
it  into  his  hands. 

Opening  it  with  nervous  fingers,  Philip  casts  a  glance 
at  its  contents.  To  a  man  of  his  sybaritic  temperament 
and  luxurious  disposition,  the  maxims  and  rules  are 
terrible.  Returning  them  after  a  careful  perusal,  he  says, 
in  a  humble  voice :  "  Father,  I  have  read  them,  and  am 
willing  to  submit  to  everything,  if  you  will  accept  me  1" 

"  Follow  me !"  replies  the  monk. 

Obeying  the  laconic  order,  he  finally  enters  a  small, 
stone  cell,  dimly  illumined  by  a  tiny  taper,  which  throws 
a  yellow  light  on  an  ebony  crucifix  and  a  vellum-covered 
missal. 

The  cold,  damp  air  strikes  through  his  feverish  frame, 
and  he  shudders  in  spite  of  himself,  which  his  companion 
noticing,  he  exclaims :  "  Go,  Philip  Wharton ;  you  are  not 
fit  for  our  society ;  the  world  and  its  fascinations  hold 
you  in  their  toils."  He  does  not  reply,  for  he  feels  the 
keen,  cold  eyes  of  his  leader  riveted  on  his  face.  The 
father  resumes  in  a  kindlier  manner:  "My  son,  your 
resolutions  are  as  water,  you  are  a  sybarite.  A  Spartan 
or  a  stoic  alone  could  stand  our  discipline.  I  know  you, 
Philip  Wharton ;  and  believe  a  man  who  has  seen  the 
world  and  knows  its  pleasures — you  could  never  reconcile 
yourself  to  our  lot." 

Philip  answers  in  a  desponding  manner :  "  I  fear  not ; 
my  heart  already  fails  me — forgive  me  for  trespassing  on 
your  time  1" 

"  My  son,  pursue  a  better  course  in  the  outside  world, 


OR,   PHILIP  DUKE  OF   WHABTON'fl   CAEEEE.          359 

and  God  will  reward  you.  All  are  not  capable  of  giving 
their  whole  being  to  religion  and  seclusion." 

Hastily  retracing  his  steps,  Philip  again  breathes  the 
fresh,  sweet  air  of  the  open  sky,  slowly  purpling  under 
the  rising  sun. 

"  S'faith,  a  narrow  escape !"  he  exclaims  with  a  half  sigh. 

Suddenly  an  arm  is  thrust  into  his,  and  Peterborough's 
familiar  voice  sounds  cheerily  on  his  ear :  "  Halloo, 
Wharton !  propping  the  convent  with  your  peccadilloes  ?" 

"  No,  Mordanto ;  I  was  nearer  razing  it  with  a  con 
version  of  my  precious  self." 

"  Ah-ha-ha  1"  laughs  the  earl.  "  What  a  superb  joke ! 
I  wonder  what  the  Delamour  would  say  to  it,  eh  ?" 

Joining  in  the  laugh,  Philip  inquires :  "  I  understood 
you  were  at  Lisbon ;  how  is  it  that  you  are  here  ?" 

"  I  was  at  Lisbon ;  but,  hearing  that  Saint  Germains 
boasts  a  new  beauty,  I  have  come  to  see  her.  Saint  Jago, 
the  Lisbonians  fall  conquered  at  the  first  attack,  and  I 
am  tired  of  such  easy  victories,  so  I  have  visited  you  to 
discover  whether  this  new  star  will  not  be  cold  enough 
to  spur  me  up  to  real  exertion." 

Philip  sympathizingly  replies :  "  Poor  fellow,  I  hope 
so,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

"  Jesting  aside,  Wharton,  I  have  some  news  for  you." 

"  News,  eh  ?     From  my  trustees,  probably  ?" 

«  No — from  England  generally,  and  London  in  parti 
cular.  You  are  being  wofully  used  both  by  type  and 
tongue.  Every  broadside  in  the  kingdom  vilifies  you, 
while  all  desiring  promotion  slander  you  and  tell  marvel 
lous  lies  about  you  and  your  doings." 

Twirling  his  moustaches,  he  replies:  "My  lord,  can 
you  mention  a  few  names  of  either  public  writers,  pri 
vate  friends,  or  enemies  who  have  done  these  things  in 
my  behalf?" 

"That  can  I.    In  particular  are  the  'Evening  Post' 


360  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

and  '  London  Journal,'  vastly  minute  in  their  comments 
on  your  past  and  present  actions,  and  defile  you  with  a 
venom  that  ought  to  be  let  out  of  them  with  a  few  ra 
pier  thrusts." 

He  says  with  a  savage  curse :  "  If  ever  I  beg  George 
for  pardon,  it  shall  be  for  the  pleasure  of  treating  these 
backbiters  to  a  Mohock  '  sweat'  and  a  sound  drubbing." 

"  Well  they  deserve  it.  When  I  return,  I  shall  make 
it  a  special  point  to  hunt  out  these  cowardly  defamers, 
and  treat  them  as  you  would  yourself.  A  few  brawls 
would  be  quite  a  Godsend  to  me." 

Philip  answers  in  a  thick  voice  :  "  Thank  you,  dear 
Mordanto,  I  know  that  my  honor  is  safe  in  your  hands. 
When  I  am  a  little  calmer,  I  intend  to  write  a  short  fa 
ble  for  English  ears,  which  will,  if  properly  appreciated, 
interest  them  exceedingly." 

The  earl  resumes :  "  I  have  also  received  news  from 
one  at  court,  who  is  well  versed  in  back-stairs  intrigues, 
that  George  is  continually  receiving  anonymous  letters 
from  abroad  in  regard  to  yourself,  which,  while  deploring 
your  sad  indiscretions,  convey  full  information  of  your 
slightest  actions  to  him,  inflaming  his  majesty's  anger 
against  you  by  subtle  insinuations  and  crafty  remarks." 

Philip  exclaims  with  a  start :  "  Sainte  Vierge !  it  seems 
I  am  an  object  of  greater  interest  at  home  than  I  thought 
for.  S'blood !  what  more  can  they  do  to  me  than  they 
have  done  ?  Mordanto,  I  stand  here  an  attainted,  out 
lawed,  beggared  traitor,  according  to  their  laws,  while 
you  are  guilty  of  felony  for  speaking  to  me." 

Peterborough  replies :  "  A  fico  for  them ;  you  are  my 
dearest  friend,  and  my  whole  wealth  is  at  your  dispo 
sal." 

Philip's  face  assumes  an  amused  expression  as  he  says  : 
"  Then,  Mordanto,  I  '11  borrow  a  hundred  Louis  d'or,  if 
you  have  them  on  hand." 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTOJSt'S   CAREER.  361 

"  With  pleasure ;  let  us  step  into  this  gaping  gold 
smith's,  who  is  just  opening  his  shutters.  I  shall  be  over 
joyed  to  draw  you  a  draft  for  two  hundred ;.  one  hundred 
is  such  a  beggarly  sum." 

Securing  the  draft  in  his  bosom,  Philip  says :  "  I  have 
still  another  favor  to  ask  of  you.  Will  you  prosecute  all 
the  editors  who  have  vilified  me,  or  defiled  my  name?" 

Peterborough  quickly  answers :  "  "Tis  as  good  as  done, 
and  if  they  escape  from  justice  by  a  legal  quibble,  I  '11 
trounce  'em  with  the  flat  of  my  sword,  up  and  down 
Grub  Street." 

"  Thank  you,  Mordanto ;  I  must  leave  you  now ;  her 
grace  will  be  uneasy  at  my  long  absence." 

"  Ay,  and  checkmate  your  monkish  move  by  turning 
nun." 

"  Little  fear,"  replies  Philip,  as  he  turns  his  steps  to 
the  palace. 

Taking  the  opposite  direction,  the  earl  saunters  down 
the  street,  humming  "  Which  way  shall  I  gae  me,"  occa 
sionally  striking  the  shutters  of  the  still  sleeping  bour 
geoisie.  Entering  Nora's  room,  Philip  awakes  her  with 
his  tread,  and  she  sleepily  exclaims:  "How  now,  sir 
monk !  back  again  ?" 

"  Yes,  Nora ;  I  abjure  Notre  Dame's  hair  shirts,  iron 
beds,  and  damp  cells,  for  a  time,  at  all  events ;  although 
I  sometimes  feel  as  if — " 

"Do  let  me  sleep,  Philip,  and  cease  your  homilies; 
clear  water  cannot  run  from  an  impure  source." 

"  But  the  diamond  can  trace  its  origin  to  the  coal  bed." 

"  Tres  bien,"  she  replies  with  a  yawn,  and  apparently 
falls  asleep. 

Drawing  his  chair  to  the  table,  he  begins  to  scribble 

some  figures  on  a  piece  of  paper,  meanwhile  muttering  : 

"  Mordanto  200  louis,  Wharton  3  livres,  amount  in  hand 

200  louis,  3  livres;   hum! — Voiture  to  Paris — nothing. 

31 


362  HIMSELF  HIS  WORST  ENEMY; 

Supper  say  5  louis ;  fees  say  20  louis.  Debts  in  Paris 
say  3000  louis.  Debtor  and  creditor  scarcely  balance ! 
Now  for  my  wardrobe — Egad,  I  am  my  own  valet !  one 
black  velvet  suit  with  point  lace,  one  shabby  suit  of 
Spanish  regimentals,  one  blue  satin  with  black  facings, 
slightly  soiled.  Ah,  well,  sic  transit  gloria  !" 

Impatiently  throwing  down  his  quill,  his  lips  contract 
as  though  he  is  under  the  influence  of  strong  emotion. 
The  sun,  slowly  rising  above  the  horizon,  streams  in 
through  the  half-drawn  curtains,  and  gives  his  haggard 
countenance  a  pale,  waxen  tinge.  Gazing  at  the  rays 
piercing  the  room  in  dusty  lines,  he  murmurs  :  "  Ay,  ye 
are  a  trifle  like  the  radii  of  my  own  life,  lustrous  enough, 
but  your  lustre  dimmed  by  the  motes  and  dust  in  which 
ye  choose  to  shine.  All  my  life  I  have  spent  in  pursuing 
a  myth,  and  like  the  rest  of  the  genus  homo  find  it  out 
just  too  late.  What  have  I  been?  A  patriot,  a  Chris 
tian,  a  husband,  an  obedient  son,  anything  that  is  credit 
able?  No!  Catiline,  Caligula,  Bluff  Hal,  YUliers— all 
are  synonymes  for  Phil.  Wharton,  the  merriest  undone 
man  in  Europe  as  they  choose  to  call  me.  If  Tarpeia's 
Rock  were — but  hold  I — ere  I  cross  the  Styx,  I  would 
vastly  like  to  know  who  my  dear  friend  is  who  kindly 
forwards  my  words  and  actions  to  King  George.  I  would 
put  another  sin  in  my  chapter  if  I  coijld  find  him  out  or 
her.  "Pis  more  like  a  woman  than  a  man.  Anonymous 
letters  smack  of  femininity  ;  if  it  was  a  woman,  I  would — " 

"What,  Philip?"  breaks  in  with  a  strange  effect,  and 
Nora  half  turns  her  head. 

Casting  a  quick  apprehensive  glance  at  her,  he  replies : 
"  Let  her  live  as  the  worst  punishment  I  could  devise. 
If  she  were  a  soulless,  heartless  brute,  I  would  have  her 
attended  to  by  Pierre  Canif,  the  Parisian  bravo,  who  can 
slice  as  many  ribbons  off  a  pretty  face  as  there  are  laws 
in  England." 


OE,   PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  363 

She  replies,  with  a  shudder,  "  How  brutal !  you  have 
been  drinking  more  brandy,  Philip  ?" 

"  "Tis  my  only  solace." 

She  says  in  a  pleading  voice:  "What  am  I,  Phil?" 

«  You — part  of  the  necessary  appendage  of  a  duke's 
household." 

Her  eyes  blaze  and  her  cheeks  grow  fiery  red  at  this 
wanton  insult,  and,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she 
buries  her  head  in  the  pillow.  Apparently  heedless  of 
her  anger,  he  remains  absorbed  in  thought  for  a  time, 
then  says  abruptly :  "  Nora,  we  must  return  to  Paris  to 
morrow  ;  I  will  order  the  voiture  to  be  ready." 

"Have  you  any  money?"  she  inquires,  in  a  dtabious 
manner. 

"  Golconda's  wealth,  or  rather  200  louis." 

"  What  will  the^voiture  cost  ?" 

"  Nothing ;  it  is  put  at  my  service  by  a  friend  of  mine 
at  Paris,  Mile.  Delam — but  the  name  is  of  no  conse 
quence." 

She  replies :  "  I  know  whom  you  mean,  Mile.  Dela- 
mour — quite  a  creditable  friend  !" 

"  Scarcely,  Nora,  but  she  is  a  lovely  woman,  and  the 
manner  in  which  she  insists  on  loaning  me  any  amount 
of  money  is  vastly  charming." 


CHAPTER  LIX. 
f 

"  Coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before." 

IN  the  fourth  story  of  a  miserable  house  in  the  Rue 
Aubry-le-Boucher,  Philip  and  Nora  gloomily  survey  the 
aspect  of  their  affairs.  Outside  a  chilling  rain  is  falling 
which  splashes  drearily  on  the  window-sill  and  filters 


364  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST   ENEMY; 

through  the  broken  windows  and  the  decaying  frame 
work. 

Philip  is  dressed  in  a  tawdry  suit  of  Spanish  regi 
mentals,  which  is  worn  and  shabby,  while  his  hat  is 
pushed  over  his  eyes.  He  taps  his  foot  in  a  manner  de 
noting  a  ruffled  temper,  while  Nora  sits  on  a  rickety, 
three-legged  stool  in  a  state  of  weariness  and  lassitude ; 
her  eyes  roam  around  the  room,  and  she  vacantly  notes 
the  prominent  absence  of  all  comforts  which  their  new 
quarters  can  boast. 

Philip  has  not  a  sou  left  of  the  money  he  borrowed 
from  Peterborough.  He  has  sold  his  black  velvet  suit, 
and  also  all  of  Nora's  dresses,  except  the  one  she  is 
wearing,  and  their  whole  wardrobe  now  consists  of  one 
shirt ;  a  periwig ;  a  Spanish  veil,  torn  at  the  side ;  a  pair 
of  red  silk  brodequins ;  and  several  pairs  of  tasselled  kid 
gloves.  Everything  else  has  gone  to  pay  for  their  board 
and  lodging.  Philip  breaks  the  silence  by  saying: 
"Nora,  how  are  we  to  procure  the  next  meal?  My 
rapier  furnished  the  last.  Shall  I  write  to  his  majesty  ?" 

"  No,  Philip  ;  you  would  only  make  him  angry,  and — " 

"  S'blood,  angry  ?  Why,  woman,  what  have  I  given  up 
for  his  sake  ?  A  vast  revenue  and  the  finest  estate  in 
England."  Angrily  rising,  he  walks  about  the  room  with 
hasty  steps. 

"  I  know  it,  Philip ;  and  God  will  reward  you  for  your 
loyalty,  even  if  King  James  cannot.  He  is  very  poor 
himself,  or  else  I  would  at  once  advise  you  to  request  a 
loan ;  but  the  cause  needs  every  penny  we  can  procure." 

"Umph  !  am  I  not  part  of  the  cause  ?" 

"  You  are,  darling,  and  one  of  the  best  parts ;  for  that 
reason  you  will  bear  this  trial ;  I  will,  and  I  am  but  a 
woman." 

After  this,  there  is  a  dull  silence,  until  Philip  resumes 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  365 

more  hopefully :   "  Vive  les  lettres !  I  '11  translate  Tele"- 
maque,  and  sell  it  for  what  it  will  bring  1" 

She  answers,  rather  doubtfully :  "  You  have  the  ability, 
but  I  fear  that  such  work  will  be  too  dry  and  uninterest 
ing  for  you  to  continue  at  it  very  long." 

"  A  great  mistake,  Nora.  I  will  begin  it  at  once,  and 
it  shall  not  be  laid  aside  until  it  is  finished.  I  intend  to 
write  a  tragedy  on  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  also,  ere  long ; 
Lady  Montague  .once  wrote  me  an  epilogue  which  will 
suit  it  admirably ;  or  else  I  '11  turn  poet  and  indite  an 
ode  to  Atterbury,  the  most  saintly  sinner  I  have  ever 
known.  Quick!  quill  and  ink!  Topple  your  empty 
trunk  upside  down :  'twill  do  for  a  table ;  then  find  my 
Telemaque  and  MSS.,  they  are  at  the  bottom  of  my  hol 
ster  bags,  yonder  in  the  corner!" 

****** 

He  did  finish  the  first  book  of  Telemaque ;  then  gave 
it  up  in  disgust.  The  tragedy  he  almost  completed,  while 
the  poem  on  Atterbury  he  did  actually  finish.  The  latter 
was  published  in  Paris,  but  its  impiety  and  scurrility 
damned  it  at  its  outset,  and  it  brought  him  in  no  money. 
He  became  shy  and  morose,  refused  to  see  any  of  his 
friends,  and  secluded  himself  entirely  from  the  world. 

Nora  was  too  proud  to  write  to  the  queen  for  assist 
ance,  and  her  relatives,  though  poor  themselves,  were 
forced  to  send  her  money  to  keep  Philip  and  herself 
from  starving. 

Says  Philip,  after  a  long  silence :  "  Nora,  I  am  going 
to  put  an  end  to  this  state  of  affairs.  You  must  write 
to  the  queen  at  once,  and  ask  her  for  a  sufficient  remit 
tance  to  enable  you  to  get  to  Madrid  !  Once  there,  you 
will  be  well  cared  for.  I  shall  enter  Notre  Dame.  The 
conviction  becomes  stronger  in  me,  every  day  of  my  life, 
that  my  hours  are  numbered ;  and  it  is  sheer  selfishness 

31* 


366  HIMSELF   HIS  WORST  ENEMY; 

in  me  to  doom  you  to  this  miserable  life.  I  will  take  no 
remonstrances." 

With  an  exclamation  of  affright,  Nora  runs  toward  him ; 
but  her  design  is  foiled  by  a  masked  ruffian  who  places 
his  hand  over  her  mouth,  while  threatening  her  with  his 
poniard.  At  the  same  instant,  Philip  is  grasped  from 
behind,  and  thrown  headlong  to  the  floor,  where  he  is 
gagged  and  bound  hand  and  foot  ere  he  has  recovered 
from  the  bewildering  effects  of  his  fall, 

Casting  a  glance  at  the  two  men  kneeling  beside  him, 
he  then  looks  towards  Nora,  who  is  almost  swooning. 
The  two  intruders  guarding  Philip  are  poorly  attired,  and 
apparently  belong  to  the  class  of  common  bravoes  which 
infest  the  purlieus  of  Paris.  Nora's  assailant  is,  how. 
ever,  richly  attired  in  a  velvet  suit,  slashed  with  violet 
satin ;  he,  like  the  rest,  is  masked  from  chin  to  forehead. 
Motioning  to  the  smaller  of  the  two,  he  gives  Nora  into 
his  charge,  and  steps  toward  Philip.  Kneeling  down 
beside  him,  he  draws  a  knife  from  his  bosom,  somewhat 
resembling  those  used  by  the  vine-growers  in  Oporto ; 
the  blade  is  about  four  inches  long,  and  slightly  hooked. 
Passing  it  carefully  over  his  palm,  he  says  to  Philip,  in 
an  evidently  disguised  voice :  "  Your  grace,  a  handsome 
face  like  yours  needs  little  adornment ;  but  in  my  humble 
opinion  the  removal  of  its  present  covering  would  benefit 
it  mightily ;  in  other  words,  I  intend  to  use  you  in  the 
same  manner  as  you  would  others.  In  so  doing,  more 
over,  I  consider  myself  as  acting  in  the  light  of  an  in 
strument  of  divine  justice." 

Twisting  his  fingers  in  Philip's  hair,  he  lowers  the 
knife  with  a  firm,  quick  motion,  when  Nora,  freeing  her 
self  by  a  violent  effort,  cries  in  an  imploring  voice  :— 

"  Edgely,  spare  him !  it  is  too  cruel.  For  my  sake !" 
Abruptly  ceasing,  she  clasps  her  hands  in  mute  entreaty, 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  361 

while  Philip  looks  at  her  with  a  strange  light  burning  in 
his  eyes. 

Dropping  the  knife,  the  leader  quickly  rises  to  his  feet, 
and  motions  his  companions  to  follow  him.  They  are 
gone  in  an  instant,  and  their  cautious  tread  echoes  softly 
down  the  stairs.  Picking  up  the  knife,  Nora  cuts  the 
stout  cords  pinioning  Philip's  arms,  and  removes  the 
gag  from  his  aching  mouth.  Springing  erect,  he  pushes 
her  aside,  and  darts  out  of  the  door  in  pursuit  of  his 
assailants. 

Running  to  the  window,  Nora  sees  him  standing  on 
the  pavement,  uncertain  which  direction  to  take.  Hold 
ing  her  head  with  both  hands,  she  murmurs :  "  I  knew 
his  voice.  Poor  fellow  I  His  love  must  indeed  be  great 
when  it  can  tempt  him  to  such  a  crime ! — I  cannot  help 
it — my  religion,  my  country,  Alberoni,  all — all." 

Leaning  her  head  against  the  mouldy  wall,  she  thinks 
with  a  shudder  of  the  scene  just  enacted. 

Entering  with  hasty  footsteps  and  haggard  face,  Philip 
exclaims:  "Nora,  who  were  those  men?  I  swear  I 
heard  you  call  their  leader  by  name — Edward,  or  Eger- 
ton,  or  one  similar  in  sound."  Grasping  her  white  arm, 
he  sinks  his  fingers  deep  in  the  soft  flesh  as  he  gazes  at 
her. 

She  replies,  in  an  unsteady  voice :  "  Philip,  on  my 
honor,  I  do  not  know  them ;  they  must  be  robbers  who 
came  in  for  booty  I" 

"  You  lie,  woman  I  What  do  robbers  want  in  a  fourth 
story  garret?  Such  men  do  not  gag  one,  then  rant 
about  vengeance  and  divine  justice,  threatening  to  peel 
one's  face  a  la  Mohock !  No,  there  is  some  underhand 
work  here  which  I  shall  find  out  ere  long ;  and  if  you  are 
implicated  in  it,  I  '11  do  to  you  as  my  ancestor  of  old  did 
to  a  faithless  wife — strangle  you  with  my  own  hands." 


368  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

She  becomes  very  white,  and  her  lips  move  unsteadily, 
but  her  throat  is  too  parched  and  dry  to  speak. 

He  resumes  in  a  sneering,  sarcastic  manner :  "  Your 
grace  is  inclined  to  be  melo-dramatic  on  this  occasion — a 
useless  proceeding,  I  assure  you !"  Receiving  no  answer, 
he  proceeds :  "  Nora,  I  leave  with  you  all  my  manuscripts  ; 
sell  them  or  burn  them,  as  you  choose ;  I  am  going  at 
once  to  St.  Germains ;  you  shall  never  see  me  again  in 
this  world.  I  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  you,  with  my 
present  suspicions  of  you ;  I  might  harm  you."  Forcing 
her  to  look  him  in  the  face,  he  says,  in  an  unsteady 
voice :  "  Nora,  I  think  you  loved  me  once.  By  that  past 
love,  I  entreat  you  to  tell  me  truly  whether  you  know 
aught  concerning  this  cowardly  attack." 

Her  answer  is  low  and  indistinct.  "  No,  Philip,  I  do 
not." 

"  Thank  God !  I  could  not  entirely  believe  you  guilty 
of  complicity  in  such  an  affair.  Nora,  sweetheart,  this 
day  we  part  forever  in  this  world.  Kiss  me  just  once ! 
Its  fragrance  shall  never  be  sullied  by  another's  lips." 

Placing  her  arms  around  his  neck,  in  a  half-uncon 
scious  manner,  she  presses  her  lips  on  his. 

"  Good-bye,  Nora ;  on  to  Madrid,  and  God  bless  you  I 

will  send  you  enough  money  to-morrow  to  keep  you 
from  starving,  at  all  events.  Good-bye  1" 

Speechless  and  motionless,  she  mechanically  counts 
his  steps  until  they  die  away  in  the  distance.  Catching 
a  last  glimpse  of  him  as  he  passes  up  the  narrow  street, 
she  exclaims,  with  a  sob,  "  Holy  Mary,  help  me  in  this, 
my  hour  of  need !  Oh !  I  feel  like  a  vile,  guilty  thing, 
full  of  bad  thoughts  and  evil  intents." 

Laying  her  head  on  the  wet  sill,  she  lets  her  hands 
dabble  in  the  cold  rain  water,  while  bitter  tears  run  down 
her  hot  cheeks,  and  her  breath  comes  in  sighs  and  sobs. 


OB,   PHILIP   DUKE   0$   WHARTON'S    CAREER.  369 


CHAPTER  LX. 

11  The  George  and  Garter  dangling  from  that  bed, 
Where  tawdry  yellow  strove  with  dirty  red, 
Great  Villiers  lies  :  alas  !  how  changed  from  him, 
That  life  of  pleasure  and  that  soul  of  whim  ! 
Gallant  and  gay,  in  Claverdon's  proud  alcove, 
The  bower  of  wanton  Shrewsbury  and  love  ; 
Or,  just  as  gay,  at  council  in  a  ring 
Of  mimic'd  statesmen  and  their  merry  king. 
No  wit  to  flatter  left  of  all  his  store, 
No  fool  to  laugh  at,  which  he  valued  more. 
Then  victor  of  his  health,  of  fortune,  friends, 
And  fame,  this  lord  of  useless  thousands  ends." 

POPE. 

TRUE  to  his  word,  Philip  entered  Notre  Dame,  and 
remained  there  for  three  months,  during  which  time  he 
was  a  very  miracle  of  piety  and  devotion,  until,  on  one 
unfortunate  morning,  he  was  severely  reprimanded  by 
the  father  superior.  He  answered  him  with  a  blow  which 
levelled  him  to  the  floor.  After  this  occurrence  he  steal 
thily  left  Saint  Germains,  and  shipped  for  Bilboa,  where 
his  regiment  lay  under  orders,  commanded  by  the  Mar 
quis  de  Castelars.  There  he  was  attacked  by  paralysis, 
which  prevented  him  from  entering  on  the  campaign  in 
tended  to  settle  Don  Carlos  'in  Italy.  Thence  he  set  out 
for  the  mountains  of  Catalonia  to  try  what  effect  its 
fresh  scenes  and  mineral  springs  would  have  on  his  en 
feebled  constitution. 

Nora  travelled  to  Madrid,  where  she  was  kindly  re 
ceived  by  the  queen,  who  appointed  her  to  an  office  of 
trust  and  responsibility. 


370  HIMSELF   HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

To  our  left  is  a  stupendous  structure  built  in  the  Gothic 
style,  which  seems  lonely  and  deserted.  It  is  the  Ber- 
nardine  convent,  whose  brethren  are  world  famous  for 
their  piety,  charity,  and  poverty. 

Standing  on  a  neighboring  crag,  Philip  surveys  it  with 
a  feeling  of  intense  longing  for  its  quiet  shelter  and 
sombre  stillness.  His  heart  beats  with  an  hitherto  un 
known  emotion,  while  his  soul  thrills  with  an  aching,  de 
votional  pathos. 

He  is  weak  and  hopeless,  sick  in  mind  and  body,  and 
is  only  desirous  of  leaving  a  world  which  has  no  longer 
any  attractions  for  him.  His  former  friends  have  all  for 
saken  him ;  while  his  name  is  coupled  at  home  and  abroad 
with  obloquy  and  sneering  scorn. 

See !  his  arms  contract  with  a  spasmodic  motion,  while 
his  face  becomes  blanched  and  pallid!  Falling  with  a 
heavy  thud  on  the  jagged  rock,  he  cuts  his  forehead  in  a 
piteous  manner.  Heaven  help  him !  He  is  writhing  in 
the  tortures  of  epilepsy,  while  none  come  to  his  relief  to 
assuage  his  agony  or  to  wet  his  burning  lips. 

For  two  hours  he  lay  there,  while  the  sun  was  scorch 
ing  his  feverish  body,  until  the  inmates  of  the  convent, 
discovering  the  poor  sufferer,  sent  -three  of  the  brethren 
to  carry  him  inside.  As  they  lay  him  gently  down  on 
the  hard  beds  peculiar  to  .their  order,  he  opens  his  eyes, 
and  looks  around  with  a  sad,  weary  smile,  while  a  great 
light  is  glowing  in  them. 

The  clustering  monks  are  hooded  and  cowled,  while 
the  superior  is  addressing  the  dying  man.  "  Stranger, 
death  is  fast  overtaking  thee ;  art  thou  a  believer  in  the 
true  faith?" 

Philip  nods  assent. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  shrived  by  one  of  our  brethren." 
Turning  to  the  nearest  monk,  he  says,  in  calm,  measured 


OR,   PHILIP   DUKE   OP  WHARTON'S   CAREER.  3fl 

accents :  "  Frangois,  I  leave  the  stranger  in  thy  care ;  thou 
knowest  thy  duty." 

Motioning  to  the  rest,  the  superior  leads  them  out, 
Frangois  alone  remaining  with  Philip. 

Philip  speaks  in  a  slow,  faltering  voice :  "  Holy  father, 
I  am  dying  1  I  pray  you,  shrive  me  quickly,  I  have 
many  sins  loading  me  down!"  Closing  his  eyes,  he 
clenches  his  teeth  to  prevent  a  cry  from  bursting  from 
him. 

Brother  Frangois's  actions  are  rather  peculiar.  Clos 
ing  the  door  in  a  noiseless  manner,  he  slides  the  bolt  fast 
in  its  socket ;  then  carefully  secures  the  small  grated 
casement  over  the  narrow  window.  Throwing  off  his 
cowl,  he  advances  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  exclaims, 
in  a  low  voice,  in  which  triumph  and  malignity  seem 
struggling  for  supremacy :  "  At  last !  curse  you,  Philip 
Wharton !-' 

Quickly  rising  to  an  upright  position,  Philip  exclaims : 
"  Edgely  Valentin  !" 

"  Or  Sir  Edgely  Warely,  whichever  you  like.  Listen 
to  me !  You  have  about  an  hour  more  to  live.  That  is 
time  enough  for  me  to  tell  you  the  story  which  I  swore 
by  my  mother's  death-bed  I  would  ring  in  your  ears 
in  your  dying  moments." 

Falling  heavily  back  on  the  pillow,  Philp  closes  his 
e3res  to  hide  Valentin's  glittering  scrutiny  from  his  gaze. 

"In  a  little  country  village  in  England  there  once 
lived  a  pure,  lovely  girl,  who  was  loved  and  respected  by 
all  who  knew  her.  She  was  still  in  her  teens  when  a 
ruffling  gallant  from  London  chanced  to  stop  at  this 
same  village;  he  saw  her;  suffice  it  to  say  that  his 
handsome  face  and  oily  tongue  were  her  ruin.  He  took 
her  to  London  with  him,  plunged  her  into  a  wild  course 
of  rioting  and  debauchery ;  then  threw  her  on  the  mercy 
of  tender  London  to  earn  her  bread  as  best  she  could. 


372  HIMSELF    HIS   WORST   ENEMY; 

"  There  was  but  one  road  open  to  her;  she  took  it.  A 
little  babe  was  born  to  her ;  this  babe — a  boy — she  sent 
to  her  old  home,  with  a  piteous  entreaty  to  her  father  to 
forgive  her  and  support  the  child.  He  did  so  willingly, 
and  also  desired  her  to  return ;  but  she  could  not  face 
him  nor  brook  the  shame  of  becoming  the  cynosure  of 
the  village  gossips. 

"(0n  arriving  at  a  proper  age,  this  lad  was  sent  to 
France  as  a  soldier.  There  he  acquired,  through  indus 
try,  cunning,  and  perseverance — family  traits — a  res 
ponsible  position  under  Cardinal  Alberoni ;  travelled 
over  the  whole  of  Europe  on  secret  embassies.  But 
lest  you  die  ere  I  have  finished,  I  '11  shorten  my  re 
cital." 

A  low  groan  issues  from  Philip's  lips. 

"Finding  out  the  secret  of  his  mother's  shame,  he 
vowed  to  have  revenge  upon  her  destroyer.  Unfortu 
nately  he  died  to  soon.  However,  he  left  a  son  to  inherit 
his  greatness.  This  son,  the  bastard  swore,  should  reap 
the  consequences  of  his  father's  acts. 

"  The  girl  whom  he  had  ruined  survived  him  but  a 
short  time ;  then,  by  her  bedside,  the  bastard  again 
swore  that  his  religion,  his  country,  and  his  love  should 
all  be  subservient  to  one  great  end — the  ruin  and  early 
death  of  his  son. 

"  Well,  he  has  kept  his  word.  The  destroyer's  son  is 
now  an  attainted,  beggared,  dying  outcast !  His  wife  is 
the  creature  of  his  illegitimate  brother,  who  for  years 
has  poisoned  the  ears  of  King  James  and  King  George 
against  him,  has  proved  him  a  traitor  to  all  parties,  and 
made  all  distrust  and  despise  him. 

"  Poverty  and  disease  coming  hand  in  hand,  he  travels 
to  Catalonia,  falls  dying  near  the  convent,  and  is  carried 
into  the  hall  by  the  monks,  where  the  bastard  brother  is 


OB,  PHILIP  DUKE   OP   WHARTON'S   CAREER.  373 

appointed  to  shrive  him.     Ah-ha!"    Adding,  in  slow, 
sneering  accents  :  "  Do  you  recognize  the  story  ?" 

"  Spare  me!"  moans  Philip. 

Drawing  a  locket  from  his  bosom,  Valentin  tosses  it 
towards  him.  Philip  recognizes  his  father,  and  he  places 
it  to  his  lips. 

Valentin  says,  with  a  laugh :  "  Kiss  it,  brother  mine ; 
my  mother  did  so  once ;  then  she  would  cry  for  hours 
after."  His  face  grows  harder  and  sterner,  while  his  fin 
gers  contract,  and  his  breast  rises  ominously. 

Philip  feebly  extends  his  trembling  hand  to  Valentin, 
who  looks  at  it  for  an  instant,  then  smites  it  with  his 
open  palm  with  such  force  as  to  leave  a  deep  red  mark 
on  the  white  skin. 

"  What  do  I  want  with  your  hand  ?  I  entered  this 
monkery,  when  you  came  to  Catalonia,  knowing  that  you 
would  come  to  the  springs  every  day ;  therefore  I  could 
see  you  and  observe  your  gradual  decay,  intending,  when 
you  became  very  sick,  to  haul  you  in  here  by  main  force, 
and  swear  that  you  were  a  madman  who  had  attempted 
your  own  life.  You  would  have  been  here  at  least  three 
days,  and  if  you  had  not  died  within  that  time,  I  pur 
posed  to  ease  you  of  life  myself.  However,  fate  has  given 
me  even  a  sweeter  revenge  than  I  counted  upon.  Can 
you  guess  what  it  is  ?"  He  inquires,  bending  over  his 
victim,  until  his  hot  breath  fans  his  cheeks. 

Suddenly  catching  him  by  the  throat,  Philip,  half 
chokes  him,  but  he  is  too  weak  for  such  an  adversary, 
for  Valentin,  placing  his  knee  on  his  breast,  soon  over 
powers  him.  * 

"  So,  your  noble  grace  would  choke  me  I  I  shall  be 
more  merciful,  I  will  remain  with  you  until  you  die ;  and 
you  shall  neither  receive  the  last  rites  of  the  church,  nor 
shall  you  pray  ;  but  you  shall  go  to  your  Maker  with  a 
curse  upon  your  lips." 
32 


374  PHILIP   DUKE   OF   WHARTON'S   CAREER. 

The  smile  of  a  dying  man  crosses  Philip's  face,  while 
Valentin  pursues,  in  clear,  distinct  accents:  "Brother, 
your  wife  did  know  about  the  attack  made  on  you  in 
Paris.  It  was  her  paramour  who  headed  the  gang. 
Your  grace,  I  am  that  paramour  1" 

Opening  his  glazing  eyes,  Philip  exclaims,  in  a  pas 
sionate  voice :  "  Devil !  leave  me  1  You  have  had  your 
revenge ;  let  me  die  in  peace  I" 

"  'Twas  I  who  sent  George  those  kindly  accounts  of 
your  loyal  conduct.  It  was  I  who.  attempted  to  poison 
your  first  wife's  mind  with  tales  to  inflame  her  jealousy 
and  rouse  her  anger  against  you  to  assist  me  in  my  pro 
ject!  But  it  was  you  who  killed  her — a  remembrance 
which  may  tend  to  render  you  calmer.  It  was  you  who 
sent  your  parents  to  their  graves,  heart-broken  and  tear 
ful  1  Now  die  I  as  great  a  libertine,  liar,  and  villain  as 
the  earth  ever  held !" 

Philip  begins  to  utter  a  Pater  Noster,  which  Valentin 
perceiving,  he  lays  his  hand  on  his  mouth,  and  prevents 
him  from  speaking.  • 

Opening  his  eyes  with  one  reproachful  glance,  he  falls 
back  dead  I 

Replacing  the  locket  in  his  bosom,  Valentin  exclaims, 
with  a  low  chuckle,  "  Now  for  Nora,  Alberoni,  and  'the 
Stuarts — my  mistress,  my  tool,  and  my  love  !" 

So  ends  "  The  scorn  and  wonder  of  our  age," 


FINIS. 


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